


Pharmakeia

by releasetheglitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), London Spy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:39:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releasetheglitch/pseuds/releasetheglitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New town, new life. Q just wants to live a quiet existence, tinker with his spells, and maybe (just maybe) work up the nerve to ask out the gruff florist with the gorgeous blue eyes. Danny just wants to get his powers under control. </p><p>But the past never stays in the past for long. Because there's someone coming after the twins, and he won't stop until Danny is dead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skylocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylocked/gifts).



Deep, deep within the woods at the edge of town, a small cottage sits, long-abandoned. Its roof crumbled, illuminating the battered floorboards in streams of watery light. Granite walls overgrown with tangled ivy, so that the house seems almost to melt into the forest. Over the years, local squirrels have made their home in the oak tree that stands guard outside. Delicate flowers in shades of yellow and purple cling to the cracks in the pathway. It is a house long-forgotten by humanity, unknown to even the most adventurous of village boys.

Until now.

All morning long the air had been thick and humid, as if the forest had been holding its breath, waiting for some big, unfathomable thing to happen. Now in an instant, the silence is broken. A faint hiss of ozone fills the forest. A flock of birds take to the air. With a pop, two men appear, one stumbling over his own feet, eyes wide in consternation.

The forest inhales. It is here. The Thing has arrived.

“Damn it Q, warn me when you’re about to do that!” Danny flops to the ground, groaning theatrically.

Q snorts and bends down, letting the cats—perched on either side of his shoulders—slink off to explore. “Would you like me to prepare a tincture of cloves? For the motion sickness?”

“Ugh. No. Your tinctures taste awful.” Danny struggles up and squints at the cottage critically. “This is it?”

“Boothroyd told me about this place. His grandmother used to own the land before their family moved to Skye. It’s got so many charms on it that no one wanders within a one kilometer radius anymore.” Q meets Danny’s eye. “No one will find us here.”

Danny nods. “Safe.”

Without his conscious permission, Q’s eyes wander to the back of Danny’s neck, where he can barely see the livid ring of bruises over the top of his jumper. He still has nightmares about it, the gutted feeling when he found the front door in splinters, the cats in distress, and Danny nowhere to be seen. The way his brother looked, limp in the grip of a seasoned witch hunter. Even in London, they could not lose themselves in the apathetic gazes of strangers, so now they are here. The outskirts of a small town glossed over in shades of green on almost every map in circulation. He will not let it happen again. He will not be caught off-guard this time.

He will keep Danny safe.

Danny, unaware of where Q’s thoughts have strayed, tugs at the vines wrapped around the building like a straitjacket. “This is nice,” he beams. “We should plant some roses instead, though. And once the roof is fixed up we can cover it with a layer of moss.”

It would be lovely. Already Q’s mind whirs with possible locations to bury talismans. Optimal placement of pentacles for energy flow. “First things first,” he says. “Because we’re both tired, and if the cats don’t get fed we may not survive the night.”

Turing, the traitor, chooses this moment to rub against Danny’s leg and purr loudly. Big green eyes blinking as if to say who, me?, as if he hadn’t left three bright stripes of scarlet across the back of Q’s hand when he’d tried to wrangle him into a pet carrier earlier. Little beast.

“Get Pam and stand back,” Q instructs.

It’s a testament to how tired Danny is, that he scoops Pampuria into his arms without protest and without insistence that he can and should be allowed to help. Q does one final sweep for stray birds and squirrels, and nods when he is satisfied. With everyone out of the way, Q closes his eyes and begins.

For Q, calling upon his magic has always been second-nature. He breathes in deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs and ignite that secret, indescribable place in his chest cocooning his heartbeat. His palms feel fuzzy, and he resists the urge to scratch. The magic flows slowly from him, still weakened by their recent travels. But Q grabs onto its edges, shapes it into the shape of a living room, two bedrooms, packs dimensions upon dimensions in a sort of superposition that he’d once thought only possible in the most theoretical of physics hypotheses.

Still, he is tired, and though Q can pore over ancient grimoires for days until Danny drags him to bed, the magic is a whole other beast. It dissipates over the haze of his unconscious, too slippery to grasp while all the while it gets stronger and stronger and white hot until Q can feel his mind shy away, the metaphorical equivalent of staring too long into the sun.

Danny says something that Q can hardly hear through the incessant buzzing in his head, the iron-edged concentration that is required for such a degree of magic. It’s not working, he’s losing control of the power and he feels its molecules shuddering, struggling to break apart like it so desperately wants to do. Then Danny’s hands are on him, and he tries to protest but then—

 _Bollocks_ , is all he can think before Danny lights up like a nuclear bomb.

There’s a bright flash of light and the scent of burning, and the house falls silent.

“You idiot,” Q hisses, gripping Danny tight. He hopes Danny cannot see the way his hands tremble, can’t feel his heart hopping like a jackrabbit inside his chest. “And after last time too. Are you— is anything broken—”

Aside from the hair that now stands up in staticky spikes on his head, Danny seems unharmed. And annoying unrepentant. “You were tired,” he insists with the same stubborn tilt of his jaw that Q recognises in the mirror every morning. “I just wanted to help.”

Q bites down the urge to hex Danny, the same way he did when they were chubby-legged children and Danny stole his lego blocks. For one thing, Danny kicks. And Q will swear to his dying day that the reason he avoids fisticuffs is because he’s too refined for such violence and not because Danny would have him in a headlock within seconds.

“Fine,” he says instead. “This time. You’d better not have created an alternate universe inside our house.” Because Danny would. His power comes and goes with the predictability and devastation of a natural disaster, and Q wouldn’t put it past him to create an entire universe from the threads of his imagination.

Danny sticks out his tongue and sets the cats down. Used to strange explosions as they are, they hardly blink. Turing sprawls in the grass and cleans his feet while Pampuria shakes herself and stares, unblinking, at an errant moth. As he does so, Q opens the door—slowly, carefully, but he will go first, because he is the oldest (by seven minutes) and he must take the lead on such things.

The floor shudders infinitesimally when Q sets careful steps down. Up-down, up-down— like a heartbeat, Q thinks. Like they’re in the belly of something alive and visceral. It’s not as frightening as he would have expected. The faintest wafts of anise seed hang suspended in the corridors, bringing with it the afterimage of bubbling potions and distilled herbs. Beyond that, he can see corridors that stretch far beyond the physical limitations of the four walls they’d seen outside. _Their very own TARDIS_ , he doesn’t say.

He can feel its life force pulsing, traces of his own magic reflected back at him, amplified by Danny’s own explosive brand of magic. Like nitroglycerin in the veins.

Is this the way Danny’s magic always feels? What must it be like, to walk around with a nuclear bomb strapped to the most essential part of yourself? Q swallows the sympathy bubbling in his throat, knowing just how unappreciated it would be. Danny does not accept pity from anyone.

“The expansion spell seems to have taken,” Q admits. It’s a little dingier than he would have liked. But a coat of paint here, a line of herbs there, and everything will start to come together. Yes, there is potential in the low wooden beams and bright bay windows. The last hints of sunlight creeping away from the walls and the tingling of magic in the air. It feels like it could be a home for them.

“I’d like to hang birdfeeders,” Danny muses, trainers scuffing lines through the shroud of dust that litters the floorboards. “Oh, but you’ll have to charm them so that the cats stay away. I don’t trust those two around anything smaller than themselves.”

Pampuria yowls in disdain. Q spells a heap of feathers into the shadows of robins to occupy her—cats though they might be, life with two magicians have turned Pampuria and Turing into disdainful things, accustomed to having their every whim satisfied within seconds. It doesn't help that both men are more than happy to dote on them.

“Tomorrow,” Q promises. Tomorrow, he will brave the little town for supplies—and a good cuppa—and make friendly with the locals. Tomorrow, they will dust the windowsills and sweep the floors and purify the workshop with incense, and a hundred other little touches that will truly make the place their own.

Danny nods and smiles sleepily, and it ignites something warm in Q’s chest. Yes, tomorrow. Today, they have a new home. Tomorrow, they will have a new life. They will not live in fear any longer.

But tonight, Q curls up on a hastily-summoned pallet with a brother sprawled across his stomach and two cats warming his feet, and he is hopeful.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When he was younger, Bond had imagined he would burn away like a comet. He remembers lying in pools of blood and vomit, joking with his comrades about what would kill them first: the cold or the cannons. He remembers the heavy recoil of a rifle into a bruised-up shoulder and the metal-sharp reek of blood that remains in one’s throat for days afterwards. He remembers death like an old friend.

Now, Bond is thirty-five, and his daydreams are far less melodramatic. He’s got a slight limp in his left leg where the shrapnel dug in one too many times and a little flower shop on the corner of Stanley and Milton, and he is almost content.

Business is good this morning; Bond wraps a bouquet of lilies in crinkly plastic and presents it, with a flourish, to a young man who promptly turns red under the attention. He helps a young girl pick out flowers for her mother—marigolds—and in between customers, he turns the radio up, letting the soft notes of jazz spill onto the streets.

Every so often he feels a stab of guilt. Guilt, that he’d survived when others had not. Guilt for returning to the life of a civilian when there are always wars to be fought. The adjustment period had been long and brutal; nights spent at the bottom of a bottle and in the company of strange women before Vesper had come along.

She’d been the one to teach his hands the shape of a bulb rather than a grenade, a watering can rather than a Bowie knife. With her help, he’d learned to use his hands to create, not destroy. And now she’s gone too.

Still, he has her greenhouse and her shop, and it's since become a source of comfort to him. They’d all found some way of coping after the navy. For Alec, it was travel. Last Bond had heard from him, he’d been backpacking across Scandinavia. James’ lips still tingle with the memory of the brännvin he’d sent as souvenir. For Felix, the drudgery of civilian life was too much to bear, and he’d joined up with American Intelligence. Still others Bond has never heard from again, and he thinks of them with the same faint nostalgia he feels for everything else from his past. All things considered, Bond has done quite well for himself. He tries not to dwell.

Soon it is noon, and half the day is gone. Bond flips the little wooden sign at the entrance to “Closed” and unpacks his lunch, a roast beef sandwich. His thoughts are occupied by the flowers that need restocking, the new sprouts in his greenhouse that have pushed their way up into the sun.

Then a loud yowl pierces the air and before he knows it, James is holding a spade like a combat knife in his hand and he’s mapped out the possible points of entry, the heavy clay pots that would suffice as weapons, the glass vases that would break into sharp points—no, no, breathe—

The yowl comes again, and this time he places it.

A cat. Just a simple cat.

He pries his fingers from the spade and exhales, long and rattling. There are no enemies in this sleepy town. He is safe, he is safe, he is safe—

A delighted peal of laughter, and the cat screeches, this time with a distinct edge of panic. Bond eases out of his wicker chair and frowns out the window. The sight immediately fills him with quiet rage.

“What are you doing?” he calls to the four children crouched across the street. Their ringleader, a boy with splotchy freckles and startled eyes, shoots up. Guilt is written all over his dirt-smeared palms and the defiant hunch of his shoulders. His companions back away, revealing a battered laundry basket, turned upside to trap a black ball of fluff inside. A raging ball of fluff, if its noises are any indication.

“Wasn’t doin’ nothin’,” one of the children mutter, mud-streaked trainers scuffing circles into the ground. And Bond hasn’t been a naval commander in years, but he still possesses the stern glare that could reduce grown men to shivering wrecks. One look, and they’re pounding down the road, no doubt to inspire acts of mischief elsewhere.

He stares at the small cat left behind. Its fur remains puffed up, but it has calmed down enough to cease the dreadful screeching. Bond shrugs and lifts the empty hamper, and the cat is off in a flash, nimble paws carrying it between Bond’s legs and to his chagrin, straight into the still-open door of his shop.

“Shite,” Bond swears, annoyed at being outmaneuvered by a cat. He thinks of all the ceramic pots and glass vases on the shelves and dies a little inside—how much damage can one cat cause? Or worse, what if it manages to injure itself?

But when he returns, the cat is sitting quietly in the middle of the shop, perched almost primly on a rug, and Bond sinks in relief. Big green eyes stare up at him as the small creature gives a pitiful mew. It’s a scrawny little thing, sleek and petit with incongruously neat fur. As he stares, the cat hops onto his counter and begins grooming its chest.

“Right,” James declares, shaking his head. “You’re welcome then.”

Other than a twitch of the ears, the cat gives no indication that he’s heard him. James runs a hand along its spine and the cat arches upwards into his touch. Despite himself, James has to grin. At least the little bugger is friendly.

“Hungry?” he asks, brandishing his half-eaten sandwich. When the cat perks up in interest, he tears off a strip of meat and holds it out in offering. Too late he wonders if cats are allowed to eat beef, but the cat just looks at him, wide eyes unblinking. James shrugs and sets it down and the cat is on it instantly, sharp teeth and pink tongue flashing as it eats.

James refuses to be offended by a cat’s rejection, but then the cat—he should name it, shouldn’t he?—trills his appreciation and fine, that’s a _little_ bit cute. And James isn’t _lonely_ , by any means. Except since Vesper died, the flat has echoed more than it used to and there are still empty spaces on the bathroom counter he doesn’t know what to do with. So maybe it would be nice to have a bit of company, even if said company walks on four legs.

“How’d you get trapped anyway?” he asks rhetorically, poking its fluffy chest. “Little bugger like you, you’ve hardly more substance than a shadow.” Bond pauses. “Shadow. That’s a good name for a cat.”

A twitch of its ears and a baring of teeth. It’s amusing how human the cat acts, as if it can understand what he’s saying. Bond smiles at the thought, rueful. He really has been alone for far too long if he’s attributing human emotions to an animal.

Ah, well. His gradual slide into senility has to begin somewhere. “You can stay if you promise not to eat anything,” he says to the cat—Shadow. “I don’t know what’s poisonous to a cat, and I didn’t save you just to let you die in my shop.”

Shadow meows in agreement, and James is satisfied. True to his name, Shadow trails after him for the rest of the afternoon, vigilant in the face of so many strangers. He ignores the coos and awws directed his way, dodging wandering fingers in favour of a pot of catnip that Bond has thoughtfully set out. To his disappointment, Shadow doesn’t react the way most cats would. Bond was rather hoping to see the little thing turn into a purring, ecstatic puddle.

During lulls, Shadow wanders over for a pet and a scritch—Bond has already discovered that he turns into jelly when the spot under his chin is stroked. And Bond has never been much of a cat person, but the way Shadow’s head tilts back while his eyes narrow into slits and a purr rumbles in his chest is simply mesmerising.

He wonders what supplies a cat will need, if it does choose to stay with him. A litterbox, no doubt. Food made for a feline’s stomach, though Bond suspects that he could provide superior meals of real chicken and fish prepared by his own hand. It isn’t as if he has much else to do in the evenings.

A solid weight presses into his chest, and Bond blinks. The shop is empty, the sky turning red in the light of the dying sun. “Sorry,” he says to Shadow, who is regarding him with a tilted head. “Let me close up, and I’ll take you home.”

But Shadow seems to have other plans. With a mighty leap, he descends to the ground and clambers onto a shelf, body twining sinuously among the rows of plants.

“Hey, get off of there—” before he can finish, Shadow has already bitten off a mouthful of stalks. Fear grips Bond, hot and bitter. But Shadow doesn’t seem to be eating it, instead holding the stalks of what Bond now recognizes as lavender in his mouth with almost tender care. Once again, Bond is gripped by the whimsical thought that there is more to this cat than he’s seeing.

“You’re a strange cat, you know that?” he tells it.

Shadow meows. Then he’s padding out the propped-open door, leaving behind nothing but a few inky hairs on Bond’s apron and a strange, hollow feeling in his chest.

 

***

 

“Where were you?” demands Danny, as soon as Q is through the door. “It’s been an entire day! I thought you were kidnapped!”

Q smiles weakly, holding his hand out to display a few sprigs of wilting lavender. He hears the unspoken worries behind Danny’s words, and is suitably chastised. Yet at the same time, bubbles of excitement keep rising within him, like he’s drank fizzy pop and it’s threatening to carry him into the rafters.

Danny stares at it, incredulous. “Unless you walked to Mordor for those, that’s not an explanation.”

Pushing past him into the kitchen in search of a vase, Q can’t help the silly smile that crept its way up his face. “I, my dear little brother, met someone today.”

Pissiness forgotten to the winds, Danny pounds after him. “You _what_? How? Is he fit?” Then, only just registering Q’s words, he scowls. “And I’m not your _little_ brother. We’re twins.”

“Spoken like a true little brother.” Q ruffles Danny’s hair, dodging the halfhearted swipe of his hand. He frowns at the room he’s just walked into: dim light and dirt floors, and the pervasive smell of rotting leaves. “Oh, bollocks, this is the mushroom farm. Is it just me or are the rooms shifting around? This morning I tried to find the toilets and was taken into the library instead.”

“Q…” Danny whines, put-out. “Tell me or I’ll put a toad in your bed.”

“If you want to be a walking stereotype, that’s your prerogative,” Q teases, then relents when it seems like Danny really will do what he’s threatened. “Okay, fine. But I don’t fancy him. He’s just a nice bloke who saved me from a tough spot.” He closes the door, then walks back out. This time, he’s faced with the heavy wooden bench and merrily bubbling cauldron of their kitchen. It’s amazing what Danny has managed to do with the cottage in just one day; all the grime and debris have been cleared away, the counters are shining, and there are wild flowers hanging in planters from the ceiling. His brother has been busy.

Danny tilts his head, hazel eyes studying Q critically. Q hates it when Danny does that. It always feels as if Danny is peering into the recesses of his soul, a form of divination wholly separate from magic. He dodges his gaze by filling a crystal decanter with water, rearranging the lavender stalks in _just_ the right configuration.

“That might be true, but you still fancy him,” he declares at last.

“Do not!” Q does not think of broad hands or amused blue eyes. He does not.

Danny shrugs, deceptively nonchalant. “So, what’s he like?”

“He’s a florist,” Q begins, a warm glow in his chest at the thought of the cosy little shop, green and vibrant with the life forces of so many well-maintained plants. The sprig of lavender looks lovely in its temporary home. Later, Q will turn it into a healing poultice, or homemade soap, or a part of a protective charm. He wonders if he should give the finished product to James.

“Ooh, common interests.”

Q tosses a candle nub at Danny who, in a rare moment of control over his powers, stops its arc of descent and sends it back to the table where it formerly rested. “Shut up or I shan’t tell you anymore,” he threatens.

“No!” Danny laughs. “Tell me more about how he swooped in like a prince in shining armour to save you from certain doom, and how you swooned in his arms, helpless to his charms— “

Whatever else Danny was about to say is cut short when Q, blushing furiously, mutters a sharp word under his breath and the floorboards open up, vines shooting out of the ground to wrap themselves around Danny’s ankles. Danny, reacting just a second too late, attempts to step away and faceplants for his troubles.

“You absolute arse,” Danny curses, trying without success to pull his legs from where they’re bound tight. “Q, stop being a dick!”

“You stop being a dick,” Q retorts, unable to think of a better comeback but also unwilling to let Danny get the last word. “Also, it’s been a long day, so I’m going to sleep now. Sleep _tight!_ ”

“Your puns are rubbish,” Danny mutters, even as Q chortles at his own joke.

Of course Q will let him out eventually, but what are brothers for, if not to inspire the worst in each other at every turn? He stretches and yawns, putting on a show of heading up to bed while Danny grumbles and curses in inventive ways—Q will have to remember a few of them for future use.

“Oh, and he knows me as a little black cat dubbed Shadow,” Q calls when he’s almost out of the room, unable to resist.

A beat of silence, then:

_“What?!”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Alex is brought into the story. Lemme know what you think of him! I have Plans for his plotline... >:)

The target is nearby. Alistair can hear his frenzied breathing, can almost smell the sharp reek of his sweat as the witch attempts to escape. He hasn’t even the presence of mind to skulk any longer; sharp cracks of branches and dead leaves underfoot echoing like gunshots in the trees. Alistair has only to follow the scuttling sounds of desperation from the man.

Days of meticulous research, of espionage and surveillance have culminated in this final moment. Alistair braces his hand around the crystal dagger that rests at his hip. The blade has been liberally coated with a layer of cobra venom, so even a witch’s accelerated healing powers could not help him survive the blow.

Alistair listens carefully as the forest falls silent. His booted feet glide over the rough terrain, as silent and deadly as any predator.

_Snap._ Alistair quickens his pace. This one is louder than before. Alistair is closing in on him.

_Crack._ Is that a flash of purple he sees? A whiff of herbs and incense?

Then a loud _thump_ , and Alistair springs forward, a bloodhound at the end of his hunt.

Of all things, it was a stray root that had brought down the witch. With no more need for stealth, Alistair allows his footsteps to fall heavy and ominous. The witch’s head whips up at the sound and his eyes fill with terror. Bone deep terror. His sandy hair is sweaty and plastered to his head, his robes torn and dirt-streaked. A pitiful sight, and if he was any normal man he would’ve surely offered assistance at this point.

But Alistair knows better.

_This is the most dangerous part_ , his mentor had cautioned. _A cornered dog has nowhere to run, so he will fight you with everything he has. Don’t let your guard down, Alistair. Don’t let the dog bite._

So he is prepared when a thunderbolt is hurled at his head. A quick sidestep, and the birch on his left explodes into charred wood chips. He jumps when a fireball is flung at his legs, and stubbornly digs his feet into the earth when a powerful gust of wind attempts to pull him into the sky.

“An Elemental?” Alistair muses out loud, when the barrage of attacks have ceased. Elemental witches are common enough. He is almost disappointed.

“Please, what do you want?” the witch begs. His voice is high and cracked. It is the voice of an adolescent, a boy on the precipice of manhood. Alistair is not moved by his youth. When he was the boy’s age, he had already learned to weather 250 volts of electricity without screaming, to run with the weight of a man on his back until he puked, to crack the delicate bones of a neck with his bare hands. Age is no guarantee of experience, not as far as Alistair is concerned.

Alistair does not respond. The ice in his eyes is answer enough for the both of them.

“I’ll…I’ll give you anything if you let me go,” the witch continues to stutter. “You name it! I can transmute metal into gold, make you richer than the Queen. I can give you spells for love, for power, for anything you want, just please don’t hurt me…”

Such petty promises. Alistair could smile with the humour of it.

Words rarely hold as much truth as we would like them to. Promises are never made without ulterior motives. Pleas are nothing more than an indication of weakness.

Nothing sounds as good as the gargle of his throat when Alistair stabs him.

***

“Report, Alistair.”

Alistair inhales. “Target in mid-teens, level two elemental, no specialisation. Dispatched in Woverley woods with two penetrating wounds; one to the trachea and one to the lower abdomen.”

"The body?"

"Taken care of," Alistair says curtly. Not even the ashes of a single molar remained by the time he’d emerged from the woods. He'd made sure of it.

Francis smiles, a sight so exceedingly rare that Alistair is thrown. "You have always been one for thoroughness, Alistair." From her lips, it carries the lilt of both praise and rebuke.

_I am what you made me_ , Alistair wants to reply, but remains silent. Nevertheless, Francis seems able to decipher his expression, because the quirk of her mouth deepens.

"Come. We have much to discuss." She turns and leaves as if she knows he’ll follow, and obedient, he does. Alistair is a head taller than Francis, but she commands a certain respect amongst the witch hunters that is completely unrelated to physical stature. Alistair could be twice his current size and still bow down at a single quirk of her eyebrows.

At night, the mansion is almost beautiful. Gothic Victorian architecture, large windows that reflect the pristine lawn and moonlight in its panes, manicured maze where Alex spent many an afternoon running as a child. The trainee hunters are tucked away in bed, and Alex raises his gaze to the tower windows, wondering if there are any sleepless children that night, wondering if he’ll see a pale face peering back at him through the glass. God knows he had done the same, many a year ago.

The roses are still in bloom, dark petals the colour of old blood in the night light. Alistair thinks back to the witch-boy, then averts his gaze. Counts Mersenne primes until the horror of killing recedes into a dull throb at the back of his head.

This is home, no matter his memories of the place. Or at the very least, the closest he’s ever had to a home. He has been raised a hunter, molded into a perfect killing machine from the moment he could walk, until he felt more at home with a dagger than a paintbrush in his hand. But even killers have origins, and this is Alistair's.

Francis’s pale head is a beacon in the night. Her heavy cape the symbol of a queen in her court. Alistair wonders how long it’s been since she took a life, as easy and ruthless as she expects the rest of them to be. He doubts she’s killed recently. After all, isn’t that the role of a knight for his queen?

How many times has he trailed after that cape as a boy, watched its crimson sheen swish across the cobblestone paths of the Home? He remembers being five years old and terrified, holding his breath with each step so as to avoid stepping on the rich fabric. Always lurking in the shadows, never stepping out of the carefully confined space he is allotted. Perhaps this is why Alistair has grown up to be her best witch hunter.

They weave through the tall hedge maze at the base of the garden, and sit in the small gazebo at its heart. Alistair runs his fingers over the granite bench, letting its rough texture ground him, remind him that this is where he belongs. Francis regards him, calmly.

“You were quite good at this maze as a child, I remember.”

Alistair remembers as well. “You abandoned me in the middle and left me to find my own way out.” The first time it had taken him the better part of a day. When he finally emerged, dirty, red-eyed, and hungry, Francis had long retired, leaving him to beg scraps of food from the cook. It’s not a memory he likes to dwell on.

Francis sniffs. “Yet you can hardly fault my results.”

The one hundred and fifty-sixth time, he’d sprinted through the familiar twists and turns— the path aligned with the back staircase of the gazebo, seventeen steps and a right turn, straight until he reached the three prongs, etc, etc. He’d cut across the lawn despite being forbidden to do so, raced up the stairs and sat at her office door, sweaty and triumphant, to await her return.

It was the first time she’d ever looked impressed with him.

Alistair has no response.

"I have a new project for you,” she says, letting those tenuous threads to the past dissolve in a heartbeat. “Be proud, Alistair. You are graduating.”

He doesn’t know what to make of those words, but Francis continues. “This newest target is perhaps the most dangerous we’ve encountered. His power is immense, his ability to evade capture even more so. Many of our colleagues have set their sights on him and failed.”

“Name?” Alistair asks, adrenaline thrumming in his heart at the thought of the hunt, meticulous research and sharpened weapons and at the center of it all, the burning hatred for magic that had been ingrained into him as a boy. The hatred is what drives him through tedium and agony alike.

“None. He is a spectre in our files. The only indication of his existence we have is the occasional flare of power, every few years. The same magical signature, every time.”

To Alistair, it sounds more akin to legend than anything concrete, but Francis has little patience for fairy tales and fear-mongering. So he bites back his own skepticism and asks, “Where was he seen last?”

“London, of course.” Always London, that wonderful cesspit of crime and disarray. “He killed the hunter known as Le Chiffre and fled. Fortunately for us, he did not dispose of the body.” The photo Francis pulls out is chilling. A dead man, perhaps fifty, with an old scar over his eye and a cruel sneer on his slackened mouth. There are thick vines wrapped over his neck, tight enough to constrict, to kill.

Alistair’s eyes flicker over the clean lines of the plants. No mottled bruises anywhere else, no wasted magic. “Impressive,” he says. “Whoever did this had extraordinarily powerful control over their magic.” At first glance he would hazard this to be the work of an Elemental, though there are other possibilities. Dreambringer, for one. Or even a common Hedge witch with an exceptional specialty for botany. It was impossible to tell with so little information.

“You begin to see what we are dealing with then.” Francis says, her own eyes skipping over the tableau of death with indifference. “But that’s only the beginning. Our sources say that they detected _two_ magical signatures on the body.”

That is surprising, though still nothing Alistair hasn’t handled before. “So a companion. Perhaps a romantic partner.”

The disgusted curl of her lips leaves no uncertainty as to what Francis thinks of the possibility of the witch having intimacies with another. “Regardless, you are searching for two undesirables, at least one classified as a type-five liability.”

“Eliminate on sight,” Alistair nods.

“Excellent.” Francis stands, signalling the end of the conversation, so Alistair does as well. “I want you deployed immediately. You may stop by the armoury for whatever you need, but you know the speed with which evidence dilutes. I expect you to call me from London by morning.”

Alistair could protest. He could point out that he has only just returned, that his body is aching and his head pounding, but he dares not contradict Francis’s wishes. So he only tucks the file into his pocket, and walks off.

Before he has gone three steps, Francis calls out to him.

“Be proud of your craft, Alistair.” Again and again, he is struck by how regal she looks, firm in her hatred of the magic that plagues England. “We protect the weak and gullible from those who would ensnare them. This witch is not the first, nor will he be the last. But with every one of these creatures we bring down, Her Majesty’s domain becomes a little safer.”

Alistair nods. “I’ll find him.”


	4. Chapter 4

This is a terrible idea. He knows this. He should not have taken such a fancy to a man whom he’s only met the once, let alone a man oblivious to the existence of magic. If Q was a sensible man, he would block James Bond from his mind and avoid his part of the village for as long as they lived there. But for all his logic and rationality and cleverness, Q is very much the consummate romantic.

Which is why he’d put his research—currently an analysis of the influence of the moon cycle on herb potency—on hold in order to make a charm bag with the lavender, along with aventurine for prosperity, a clover for luck, silver for protection, and rose quartz for love. Q blushes at the memory, feeling like a schoolboy scrawling the name of his crush all over his notes.

Typically, he chickened out of bringing the charm bag with him at the last possible minute. Danny had been exasperated with him, of course.

“He won’t even know what it means!” Danny had shouted, throwing his arms up. To which Q had replied, “It’ll still look shifty if a cat shows up with a bag of rocks and plants,” and Danny had responded by calling him a gormless chicken. Well, sod what Danny thinks. He’s not the one who has to follow through with the decision.

Q is outside the shop by now. The sign is simple: the words “Milton Place Flowers and Greenhouse” in bold black lettering on a charmingly rustic wooden background. The glass front is spotless, the flowers vivid and healthy, and the sheer energy of the place makes Q’s fur tingle with joy, just as it had the first time he’d been allowed inside.

He can’t see Bond from his low vantage point, but he can hear the low, smooth drawl of his voice, interspersed with the louder chatter of what sounds like two girls. Self-consciousness ripples through him. What is the protocol for this? How does a cat announce his reappearance to a place where his welcome is uncertain?

Alright, that’s easy enough to answer. He’d received much the same treatment from Turing and Pampuria.

Q opens his mouth and yowls loudly.

“Holy buggering shit—” he hears from inside, before footsteps pound close and the door flies open and feline instincts being what they are, Q tears inside, quick enough to make the fur on his back ripple. He hears gasps and shrieks but it doesn’t matter because he is here, in this space that smells of sunshine and life and—

—and a hand grabs him by the nape and his four feet are off the ground, bringing him face-to-face with a very unimpressed James Bond.

“Shadow?” If Q was in possession of his faculties of speech, the first thing he’d say would be, “What kind of man names a cat Shadow? Have you no respect for the dignity of felinekind?” Well, no, the first thing he’d _actually_ say would probably be more along the lines of “oh bugger me you’re hot,” but he likes to pretend he’s a little more put together than that.

“Meow,” Q responds, giving his cutest pout. Sure enough, Bond lets go and Q is allowed to hop onto the counter, to the spot by the cash register where he’d lounged for the majority of his last visit.

“Aww,” one of the girls coos, stroking his spine with a tentative hand. Q allows it, but twitches an ear in warning. Wisely, her hand withdraws. “Is he yours?”

Bond draws close, tickles the tip of his chin the way he did last time and Q is touched that he’s remembered this little detail. “No, but it seems he’s taken a liking to me.”

 _Oh, you have no idea,_ Q thinks.

When they leave and the shop is quiet again, Bond turns to Q, eyebrows raised. Q can’t read the look in his eyes.

“You came back,” Bond says. Q waits, but the man falls silent.

 _Does he expect me to respond?_ Q stands up on four legs and butts his head against Bond, purring. As he’d hoped, the gesture seems to break Bond out of whatever mood he’d fallen into and Bond rubs his thumbs behind Q’s ears. Bond is petting him. Bond isn’t dismissing him as a stray mongrel and shooing him out.

“I hope you didn’t just come here because you think I’ll feed you,” Bond chuckles. To Q’s dismay, his stomach growls at the exact moment Bond says that and he freezes, ears pulled back in embarrassment.

Bond laughs, a loud, full-bellied thing that deepens the lines around his eyes and makes him look about ten years younger. Q is enchanted by that laugh. “Knew it, you greedy thing.”

“Murr!” Q protests, but Bond is reaching under his counter and pulling out a can of fancy tuna feast.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come back,” Bond admits, looking a little chagrined. “But I figured…”

Q bites his hand, very gently, then licks him.

“Bloodthirsty beast,” Bond scolds, though he makes no move to pull away. The aroma of prepackaged fish and preservatives isn’t appealing, but Bond’s gesture is so ridiculously kind that Q could cry.

No one besides Danny had ever done anything like this for him before, in either human or cat form. The anonymity of London was what had shielded them for so long. And before that was a string of unfriendly towns, filled with villagers who glared and whispered about them behind their backs.

Never before had he been made to feel so welcome.

Instead of eating, Q jumps onto Bond’s shoulder. Bond grunts and takes a few steps back, not anticipating Q’s sudden appearance, nor the way Q rubs against his jaw, forceful and full-bodied. As a human Q is far too shy to consider the idea of such obvious affection. But as a cat, at least he can feign ignorance.

“Alright, alright.” Q is beginning to recognise that gruff-yet-fond tone of Bond’s whenever Q does anything particularly adorable. “Bloody cat. Go eat before you begin to live up to your name.”

Q mashes his paws against Bond’s shirt a few times, just because he can, and to take a kind of evil pleasure from the way Bond curses at the feeling of tiny claws digging into his shoulder.

The canned food is foul, as he’d expected, but Q finishes more than half the tin in the name of being polite. Bond turns his back on him to assist a customer and Q dumps the rest of the slop in the trash.

Bond doesn’t seem surprised when he returns and finds Q purring at a potted azalea tree. “You like plants, huh?” he muses. “First the lavender theft, now this.”

Q purrs louder. They are an essential component of his craft, after all.

“I have something you’d like then,” says Bond, and Q has to fight to not appear too interested, to exude the aura of the aloof cat. “That is,” he continues, “if you don’t run off again.”

Not for all the spells in Merlin’s belt would Q miss this.

He stays until closing time again, acting as little more than a (not particularly silent) observer. The flower shop is an island of calm in his hectic life and lying there, basking in the sun and Bond’s voice, he can almost forget the constant danger that hounds him and Danny. Here, he is Shadow the cat, not Q.

He does not think of what Bond would do if he found out that Q is a human.

He does not think of what Bond would do if he found out that Q is a witch.

“Ready?” Bond asks, startling him from his thoughts. He gives a full-body flinch that Bond soothes away with deft fingers and hisses, aggrieved.

“Sorry,” Bond laughs, not sounding sorry at all. Then he frowns. “Hmm, I don’t have a cat carrier. You won’t run off, will you?”

“Mreow!” Q protests, offended at the idea that he would bolt like a common stray. To prove his point, he leaps off the counter and twines around Bond’s legs in 8-shaped loops, leaving fur all over his trousers in the process.

Bond nearly trips and curses. “Point taken.”

Q expects them to walk down the road, but Bond leads him into the employees’ section of the shop and out a back door. The grass back here is so tall that it obscures Q’s vision, and he stands on his hind legs, digging his front paws into Bond’s legs for support.

What he sees nearly makes him shift back into human form in shock.

It’s gorgeous. Just gorgeous. Glass panes arranged into the shape of a house, supported by blindingly white bars of metal. The inside lush and green, and even from this distance Q can see the pristine rows in which the plants are arranged. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and he’s trembling with desire. Desire to reveal himself as Q and begin peppering Bond with questions, desire to simply get up close to the scent of moist soil and fresh plants and drown in it.

“Beautiful, hmm?” Bond picks him up, one hand around his belly and one around his rump. It’s a bit ignominious, and Q can understand why Pampuria always squirms away when he tries to lift her but at the same time, he just wants to be _there._ Now.

“Little menace,” Bond grumbles, when Q twists out of his hold. Q paws at the sun-heated glass while Bond opens the door, tries not to step on him, and curses like a sailor. Then he is inside, and he has to freeze because _there is just so much of everything and he doesn’t even know where to look first—_

The fuzzy green bulbs that have just pushed their way past the soil?

The fragrant rows of herbs; basil, lemongrass, and rosemary. Even the rarer ones like mandrake and monkshood. Clary sage and rue.

The tender rosebuds, fleshy and dew-stained and still too shy to open their petals to the world.

James’ greenhouse is a witch’s paradise. Q can’t see a thing he wouldn’t use in a potion or ritual, and just the thought of being in a space like this makes his magic hum and dance.

He rumbles out a purr, the closest he can get to a Blessing while in this form. They say that a cat’s purr is at the proper frequency to heal small scrapes and bruises. Well, Q’s purr is strong enough to magick good will and blessings into the plants.

Bond lets him explore the greenhouse while he waters the plants and checks the soil. His hands are deft and sure, handling the plants with a quiet confidence that speaks of years of experience. Not that Q expects a florist to have a black thumb, but he wonders how long Bond has worked here. Had he grown up plucking weeds with a plastic watering can in hand? Has he lived in this sleepy town all his life?

He wants to know Bond. And he wants Bond to know him. He wants to tell him about how mugwort can be used for practically anything, from smudging to divination, and how a petal from the moonblossom flower will always give his potion an extra kick.

And in that moment, Q makes his decision.

The next time he goes back, it will be as himself.

Bond sits down. Q curls up next to him. They stay there quietly, contently, two people wrapped up in their own thoughts, but finding companionship in each other nonetheless. Outside, it is getting darker. But here, in this little bubble of green, they are secluded from the world.

“She would’ve liked you,” he hears, just barely, and his ears prickle in curiosity. But Bond is not forthcoming, and at this moment, at least, it doesn’t matter. Q lays his head in Bond’s lap and lets the soothing scent of lemongrass and mint lull him into pleasant daydreams.

***

Danny is bored.

He’d entertained himself by running through the rooms at top speed (if he’s fast enough he can see the floorboards slot themselves back together when the rooms shift), dressing the cats up in cute outfits, and tinkering with Q’s potions. The last one had caused his eyebrows to cycle through all the colours of the rainbow for a solid half-hour and he’d backed shiftily out of the workshop afterwards. Q never needs to know about this.

Now he’s lying on a giant bubble—another project of Q’s—in his room, and he’s _bored._

Turing walks past the doorway and Danny makes grabby hands at him. “Turing, c’mere!” He coos. “C’mere, love, come cuddle with me.”

Turing doesn’t even spare him a glance, and Danny sighs, flopping back down on the bubble. It gives way in a pleasingly spongy sort of way and if Q was here, he’d already be firing off suggestions for improvements, for different shapes and different densities and everything in between.

Danny misses Q when he’s not there. For all that they tease and harass each other—Danny still hasn’t forgiven Q for that trick with the vines—Q is his best friend. The one who taught him the names of constellations and poisonous herbs, the one who once spent an entire week with him trying to teach the cats to fetch, albeit unsuccessfully. The one who’s kept him safe all these years.

But he also misses the company of others. The exhilarating array of possibilities that arise when meeting someone new. The excitement of finding someone with the same quirks as himself. The wonder of peeking into a small, private part of another’s life.

He could go into the village.

Danny toys with the thought. Q would fuss if he knew of it, but Q is off courting his florist as a cat because he’s a nerd and therefore cannot tell him what a bad idea this is.

It isn’t as if he has to stay in the cottage forever. But usually, Q is with him when he goes out, in case there’s a mishap with Danny’s magic. In London, it was only semi-disastrous if his magic went awry. The English are a peculiar breed of polite and avert their gazes when Danny’s nose suddenly spouts leaves or when stars fall out of his hair. But in a small town like this, anything out of the ordinary could throw them head-first into the spotlight.

But it isn’t as if he’s planning on making a daytrip out of it.

He could walk around a bit, stop at a café for his afternoon tea, and be back home in time for dinner.

Danny can suppress his magical outbursts for a few hours. He’s sure of it.

As if mocking him, a trail of sparks suddenly shoot out of his fingers and into the balloon. It pops with a sound like a gunshot, and Danny falls, cursing, to his bed.

Somewhere in the house, there’s the sound of angry mewing.

“Sorry!” Danny calls, shaking out his arms with a wince. Well, now that that’s happened, he shouldn’t be due for another outburst for a while, right?

Right.

He’s out of the cottage in a flash, with only a bit of guilt stirring in his gut. But even that little bit is forgotten when he runs down the path to the village, sun clinging to his hair and birdsongs in his ear. The warmth of the afternoon cheers him immediately, and his trepidation is replaced by excitement.

There’s something so wonderfully exciting about moving to a new town—that is, if he forgot the reason for the move. It’s the disorientation of the unfamiliar, the thrill of the unknown. Buildings that he would not have glanced twice at in his old home—gas stations, chemists’ shops, dental offices—seem to take on a fairy tale quality. He finds himself smiling at the old-fashioned shops, so different from the gleaming storefronts of glass and metal he’d found in London.

A sweets shop with pictures of cakes and lemon drops painted in pastel colours on the window. A dimly-lit leatherworker’s stand that smells delightful; all musk and pine and the sharp bite of varnish. Bookstores with piles of yellow paged novels sitting in bins outside. And everywhere he goes, there’s someone to nod at him, to wave and say hi to.

“Hey there,” an old man in a postman’s uniform calls. Danny’s first instinct, gained through years of mistrust, is to fight, to defend himself, to bite and scratch and yell before he lets them take him away. But the man’s eyes are kind, his smile genuine. And Danny’s magic may be unpredictable on the best of days, but he doesn’t need divination to know that this man is harmless.

“Hello,” he says.

“You new in town, boy? What’s yer name?”

Danny shifts, wondering if he counts as a resident of the town if he doesn’t technically live within its limits. “Danny. And—sort of? I live just outside, it’s a bit complicated—”

“Ach,” the man snorts. “You’ll be from Hatfield then. We get a lot of young lads like you in the summer, hankering for a taste of Joanie’s ice cream.”

Danny laughs, delighted with the idea. “Is it really that good?”

“But of course!” the man cries, sounding offended. “Tell you what boy, get yer arse down to Joanie’s Creamery and tell her ol’ Benjamin sent you. She’ll set yer mind proper.”

Well...

It _is_ a nice day. And Danny _does_ love sweets.

“I will,” Danny grins. “It was nice to meet you, sir.”

Old Benjamin winks and tips his hat at Danny. “You too, lad. Don't be a stranger now.”

*

Danny is in heaven.

Raspberry-dark chocolate with coconut shavings heaven.

The richness of the chocolate, the way the chunks of raspberries burst over his tongue, the cone that crunches perfectly when he bites into it.

Joanie is a genius. He has to concede.

Danny looks for a place to sit and enjoy his treat. The inside of the shop is hot and stuffy, the laminated tabletops sticky and warm to the touch. Instead, he takes his ice cream to the back porch.

And pauses.

There, sitting at a plastic white table near the side of the shop, is a solitary man, nursing a small bowl of what looks to be coffee-coloured ice cream.

For all that he’s been isolated and hunted, Danny has always had Q and the cats, and he’s never really been lonely. But just as he could tell that Old Benjamin was the jovial sort, he can read the loneliness that practically drips off the man’s shoulders. It's in the hard set of his mouth, the wistfulness in his eyes, the curve of his spine.

He’s met enough people today to satisfy his need for socialisation. He’s seen enough of the town to begin thinking of it as his new home. And Danny knows the danger of saying too much, pushing too far, but something about the lonely man practically cries out for acknowledgement, and Danny cannot resist.

“Hello,” says Danny, approaching the man. The stranger jumps, his eyes startled and doe-like and far too old for his body. Danny gets the feeling that this man has seen more of the world than he ever will.

He doesn't say anything, and Danny rocks back on his heels, feeling awkward.

“It's good ice cream, isn't it?” He rambles, as he's wont to do when nervous. “I was a little sceptical, you know, cause it isn't like you could ever make _bad_ ice cream. But it’s, you know.” The man still doesn't say anything. “...really good,” Danny finishes lamely.

Still, he thinks the man is sitting just a little bit straighter, so he continues. “The weather is lovely, don't you think? I'm meant to be cleaning house right now but I couldn't stand being cooped up inside on such a beautiful day. Are you enjoying the sunshine too?”

“Why are you talking to me?”

Danny recoils, stung. “I, uh, sorry. It's just that you seemed sort of lonely sitting here by yourself. I thought you might appreciate someone to keep you company, but I guess not. Sorry again, I'll just—”

“No!” The man interjects. There's a faint blush on his face that makes Danny feel a little better about the whole debacle, like he's not the only one who's made a fool of himself. “No,” he repeats. “Please stay. I only meant, I'm not used to talking to strangers.”

“Neither am I, really,” Danny chuckles, still feeling a little wrong-footed. “But I thought I'd give it a go anyway. Cause otherwise, how do you know, right?”

The man nods, seeming to digest this. Already Danny is realizing that his companion is a man of few words, but he doesn't mind. It's a silly fancy, but he feels as if he could tell this man anything, and he'd just weather it with the same calm he's shown up til now.

“So anyway, I'm Danny. Danny Holt. What's your name?” Danny asks, hoping to pry a few more words out of him.

The man blinks, the shadows of his lashes ghosting over his cheekbones. “My name is Joe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol okay there "joe"
> 
> So it seems as if I'll be sticking to a posting schedule of weekly Friday updates! Knock on wood...?


	5. Chapter 5

“Joe?” Danny echoes. It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to realise that “Joe” is lying to him.  But then, who is Danny to judge? He hadn’t lied straight-out about his origins, but he’d strongly implied to everyone who’d stopped to talk to him that he is a simple student, studying English Literature at a nearby University. Some lies are necessary, and even though he’s burning with curiosity about the true identity of this Joe, he won’t pressure him.

Joe—or whoever he might be—smiles at him. “Yes.” This one word seems to take all of his effort, because he stares down at his ice cream bow immediately afterwards. It looks to be simple vanilla. Joe has eaten it in small scoops, spooning out neat slivers from the edge to keep the remaining ice cream symmetrical.

Order. Patterns. Solitude. Already pieces of the puzzle named Joe are falling into place. Judging from the sidelong glances Joe shoots him when he looks away, Danny suspects that he’s building up a mental image of Danny as well. He wonders what Joe thinks of him.

Apropos of nothing, Joe stands up. The motion is fluid and graceful, so at odds with his sparse speech that Danny is left blinking. “I’m done with my ice cream,” Joe explains.

“Oh, alright.” Danny smiles at him, trying to hide his disappointment. After all, he hadn’t expected Joe to speak to him for even this long.

Joe hesitates, glancing between the door and Danny. Danny holds his breath, waiting for something he’s not even sure he wants, something that terrifies and thrills him when he thinks about it. And then:

“Would you like to join me?”

*

Danny knows he should be cautious, but the fanciful, romantic part of his brain is already screaming at him to snog Joe.

Surely, there was a reason they had met in that small shop, especially when Danny had been so close to staying at home? Surely there was  _ something _ that drew him to speak to Joe, something that had made Joe reciprocate despite his obvious reticence?

Danny’s always believed in a higher power. It drives Q mad; he’s subjected Danny to countless rants about how science and magic collectively dispel any possibility of a deity watching over them. And on some level, Danny agrees. But for him, some things are just meant to be. Call it fate, call it guidance from an entity they cannot hope to understand. Danny only knows that there’s a reason Joe was brought into his life, and he intends to find out what that reason is.

At his feet, little bunches of celandine flowers spring up in cheerful, yellow bunches. Danny curses, trying to reign in his emotions. Damn his magic! Does it really have to begin acting up now, in front of Joe of all people? He scowls and quickens his pace, 

“Is something the matter?” Joe glances at him, frowning. 

“No, no, nothing!” Danny laughs nervously, hoping the lie doesn’t sound as wrong as it feels in his mouth. “I’m only—”

“We don’t have to walk, if you don’t want to. Is there something you’d rather be doing?” 

Now Danny feels guilty. Joe’s grey eyes are wide and earnest and there’s a little furrow in his brow that Danny wants to smooth out. “I don’t mind walking, really. I mean, I like spending time with you.”

Joe looks away, but Danny catches the way the tip of his nose flushes. It’s thrilling to realise that Joe is not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

At his feet, the celandine grows taller, petals bursting open like ripe fruit. Danny skips happily, young and besotted and leaking magic. 

“So what do you do?” he asks eventually. It’s obvious that Joe comes from money. His linen shirt and trousers are simple but well-fitted. Probably bespoke. Danny looks from Joe to himself and smiles, rueful, at his muddy knees and worn “Save the Bees, Save the World” shirt.

Joe shrugs. “Finance journalist. Nothing very interesting.”

Danny tilts his head. “In this town? Don’t get me wrong, I know _ nothing _ about finance, but shouldn’t you be working somewhere like London, or Manchester?”

A shadow of a smile passes over Joe’s mouth. It’s gone before Danny can wonder about it. “I was in London a few days ago. Now I’m...following a lead.”

“Sound exciting,” Danny laughs. Joe’s arms swing freely at his side, and he wonders what it would be like to reach over and take his hand. Perhaps walk arm in arm with him.  _ Get a grip, Danny, _ he scolds himself.  _ You don’t even know if he likes men, let alone if he’d be interested in you. _

“That’s one way to put it,” says Joe. Danny looks up to see that Joe is watching him stare at his arm, and he flushes, caught out. Joe pauses in the middle of the street and turns to Danny. Their eyes meet and suddenly, they are standing face to face. 

“Are you gay?” Danny blurts out.

_ God. Damn. It. _

He’d pray for the ground to swallow him up but knowing his powers, it probably will.

“You don’t have to—” he says, at the same time that Joe blurts out, “Yes.”

Danny blinks.

“Oh, oh,” he says. “Oh. Good.” That’s an understatement. Danny’s heart is soaring so high that he might as well be riding atop Q’s mutant bubble again. “Err, so am I, for that matter.”

Joe rubs the back of his neck in agitation. “I don’t really talk about it.” 

“Are you not out to your family?” Danny asks, and winces when Joe shakes his head. The good thing about only having a brother is that he’s never had to come out to anyone. Ever since he can remember, they’ve teased each other about their crushes (of  _ course _ Q has a hard-on for Captain Kirk; he’s practically the living embodiment of Spock himself). He can’t imagine the fear and uncertainty that would come with hiding that part of yourself from your family. 

“I don’t date,” Joe explains.

Oh, ouch. Now that’s a rejection if Danny’s ever heard one.

“Noted,” he laughs, trying to hide the way his hands tremble. He doesn’t have to turn around to know that all the flowers that had sprung up beneath his feet are wilting as they speak. “I, uh, that’s good to know.”

Joe peeks sideways at him. “You’re upset,” he notes. “Why?”

Irrationally, Danny feels a stab of anger in his chest. Isn’t it enough that he’s been summatively rejected? Did he really have to spell it out for him? “I’m not,” he insists.

“You are. Your face is flushed and you’re shaking. Did I say something to upset you?”

Danny studies the way Joe bites his lip, genuinely anxious. His grey eyes have turned the colour of thunderstorms. “Perhaps I’d been hoping to ask you out,” he admits at last. So what if Joe laughs at him? Danny can turn himself into a  _ toad _ . He doesn’t need a boyfriend.

And that’s possibly the saddest thought he’s had today.

“Really?” Joe asks, sounding confused. And—is that a little interest that Danny hears? “Why would you want to do that?”

“Of course,” Danny chuckles, shaking his head ruefully. “You’re attractive, you’re a mysterious stranger...is it so surprising that I’d like to get to know you better?”

They are at a beach now, the springy earth giving way to cool pebbles and the fragments of broken shells. Danny inhales the fresh air and kicks at the sand, revealing wet clumps beneath the top layer. His first instinct is to run into the water, let the waves crash over his feet and soak through his socks. A childish impulse, but an honest one, nonetheless.

Joe doesn’t reply for a few moments, his eyes trailing over the coastline like he’s searching for something.  _ He always seems to be searching for something,  _ Danny realises.  _ Like he’s already looking ahead three steps into the future while the rest of us are still struggling in this time.  _ He can’t tell if that’s an admirable trait, or simply lonely.

“Intimate connections are hard to come by in my line of work,” Joe says at last, slow and measured, as if weighing each word. “Discouraged, even. That doesn’t mean I’ve never yearned for it.”

_ Why would a finance journalist be discouraged from dating? _ Danny wants to ask. But then, part of him suspects that this is the most honest Joe has been with him all day. “So…?” he asks, holding his breath.

Joe smiles, a lopsided, rueful thing. “So, I’d like to try, if you wouldn’t mind."

Something powerful snaps within Danny and before he can give his reply, a massive wave rises out of the water. 

“Look out!” Joe yells, grabbing his hand and sprinting away, towards safer grounds. Danny has hardly time to react beyond the horror of what he’s just done, the fear of discovery, the rush of witnessing the might of his magic, as destructive as it might be.

The water crashes down over the backs of their ankles and they fall, panting, onto grass. Danny hopes Joe’s loafers are undamaged; they looked like they cost more than Danny’s entire wardrobe.

“Are you alright?” Danny asks. There’s an apology half-formed on the tip of his tongue that he has to physically bite down. As far as Joe knows, it was just a quirk of the weather. And he’d like him to go on believing that.

He laughs to himself. Whatever Joe is hiding, it can hardly be more scandalous than the issue of his magic.

Joe nods, eyes scanning over Danny’s body in a way that is entirely non-sexual yet oddly protective. Danny finds that he quite likes it. “That was strange,” Joe says, frowning.

“Strange doesn’t cover it,” says Danny. “You know the weather though, always unpredictable.” 

Joe doesn’t seem convinced. “Still…"

“Anyway!” Danny interjects brightly, trying to get Joe’s mind off of what had just happened. “Before all that happened, you were saying? About the possibility of dating?”

That does seem to distract Joe, though he still seems troubled. “Yes.” Then he looks at Danny and smiles, and seems to shake off whatever preoccupies him. “Would you like to accompany me to dinner one night?”

Danny grins. “I’d be delighted. Shall I give you my number?”

He rattles off a string of numbers he’s only given out a handful of times in his life but that he’s memorized, waiting for the day when he’ll get the chance to use it. Joe does not write it down, but he assures Danny that he’s got a head for numbers and Danny just has to trust that he’s telling the truth.

They walk back to town in comfortable silence. Joe seems to be done talking for the day, and Danny doesn’t push him. Joe stops beside the entrance to a motel. The inside, from what Danny can see of it, is bright and well-maintained. He wonders if Joe will invite him inside. He wonders if Joe will kiss him good night.

But instead, Joe shakes his hand. Danny is simultaneously outraged that he apparently does not deserve a kiss goodbye and thrilled by the rough callouses he can feel on Joe’s palm. Joe turns back once and looks as if he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. Then the door falls shut and Danny is left there, standing on the street, starry-eyed and confused.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule is already messed up--my sincerest apologies :P but last weekend I was in New York, seeing The Crucible (WHICH IS SO GOOD YOU GUYS BEN IS SO BRILLIANT) and my family is in town this weekend so I won't have time to post on Friday either. Please accept this chapter for now, and I'll do my best to get this fic back on track once all the chaos dies down!

It’s a few days later before Q can work up the nerve to go through with his plan. In that time, he has concocted bottles upon bottles of potions; marigold yellow ones for luck, essence of rose for romance, a milky daisy one that smells of sunshine and hope, for strength. Already they are spilling over his counter onto the floor, where the cats bat at them before Q shoos them away.

But eventually, he runs out of excuses. That is, their supply of potion bottles run out and Danny refuses to let him buy more before he goes to talk to James. That’s the reason why he stands in his bedroom now, hair plastered to his skull with a good sticking spell and clothes swirling chaotically around his head. Danny perches on his windowsill, Pampuria in his lap.

“Don’t you own anything except those horrible cardigans?” Danny groans. Pampuria offers them both the same unimpressed scowl, even while Danny tickles her rump.

Without turning around, Q sends a tie flying into Danny’s face. “My jumpers are the height of fashion. Anyway, they’re better than that bunny shirt you’re wearing.”

The shirt in question has a giant cartoon rabbit terrorising a city on its front. Q actually likes it quite a bit and plans on stealing it in the future, but Danny huffs in offense and that’s all he was aiming for. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Yes!” Q cries, the nerves returning to him, full force. His magic strums through the air like guitar chords, rippling with a gentle tension that would be devastating if his control was as erratic as Danny’s. As it is, the magic only sparkles and fizzes, charging the air without igniting it.

“Calm down,” Danny laughs. “Try the mustard cardigan with a white shirt under it. And those checkered trousers. They make your arse look nice.”

“I hate you,” Q hisses, blushing red. He can’t resist a peek at his arse in the mirror though. It is a pretty nice arse, if he does say so himself. Hopefully James will find it attractive as well. Hopefully James will find _him_ attractive.

Otherwise he might have to take up residence as a cat forever. That might not be so bad. Turing and Pampuria lead a pretty good life, don’t they?

On cue, Pampuria stretches and strolls out of the room, blinking contemptuously at them both as she does so. Q wouldn’t be surprised if that cat is planning to murder them all one day, and dance over their graves.

“What do you think?” Q asks, turning around to face Danny when he’s done.

Danny studies him, brows furrowed, then twirls a finger in the air. Feeling like a git, Q spins for him.

“It’s missing something,” says Danny. “Don’t get me wrong, the outfit is nice, but doesn’t really make an impression except ‘boffin chic’.”

“One day, when you’re my age, you’ll realise the folly of your youth,” says Q.

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Danny ignores the jab, hopping off the ledge and shoving Q aside so he can dig through his closet with gusto.

“Yes, treat me like a tea trolley to be pushed about,” Q snaps good-naturedly. He doesn't really mind Danny's blunt excitement. Truth be told, he’s been missing Danny. They’d scarce spent any time together since moving, in part because Q really has been busy, setting up his lab and casting protective spells everywhere. It’s also because of his visits to Bond though, and how they turn him into a puddle of silliness for days afterwards.

It’s a bit shameful. Danny is his _brother_. He shouldn’t play second-fiddle to another man, no matter how blue said man’s eyes are.

Q nudges Danny while he’s buried in Q’s oversized closet, dodging the piles of fabric that Danny tosses out at random. “This weekend, want to hang out together?” he suggests. “It’s been a bit hectic recently. I thought we could get a pizza, try out a few of those spells in the Grimoire that bites when you try and open it…”

“You’ve figured out how to stop it from biting?” Danny asks. He sounds suspicious, and Q doesn’t blame him. Last time they’d tried, Danny had almost lost the tip of his nose.

“I have a couple of leads.”

Danny turns around and grins, a pair of Q’s socks strewed atop his head. “Alright, sounds like a plan.”

Q is about to say something else, but Danny continues. “This had better not be ‘cause you feel bad for being gone all the time, though.”

Q blinks, ashamed at being caught out. “I…”

Another shirt flies at him, this time hitting him in the face before he can direct it away. “Seriously?” Danny huffs. “I’m not just sitting on my arse, waiting for you all day, you know.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Q protests. “I just feel rather silly, mooning away like a lovesick teenager and neglecting my family. Did you know Turing wouldn’t let me pick him up today?”

This seems to placate Danny, because he returns to his digging. “Turing’s temperamental. He’ll love you again once you conjure up a few mice for him to run after. But really, you don’t have to worry about me. I keep busy.”

“Good,” says Q. Any other awkward apologies he might have offered is drowned out by Danny’s victorious cry of “Ah-ha!”

Q takes one look at what he’s holding and blanches. “No. No way. I’m not wearing that.”

“Don’t be a knob,” Danny insists. “This cape looks great on you!”

The cape in question—though Q would describe it as more of a _robe_ —is lush and purple with a patterns of stars and birds embroidered in gold thread. Q is not ashamed to admit that he wears it when he wants to add an extra bit of flair to his spellworking, swishing the sleeves about and spinning like an oversized bat. But wearing it out in public? He might as well hand a book of matches to the nearest witchhunter.

“Remember how we’re supposed to be keeping a low profile? I wear this out and we’ll have a mob banging on our door by sundown.”

“Oh, don’t worry, everyone here is really nice. They won’t hurt you,” Danny says breezily, then stops, eyes widening.

Q freezes.

“You went out by yourself!”

Danny winces, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, yeah, I did. But it was only for a bit—”

“Danny, we talked about this!” Q paces back and forth, horrifying memories filling his mind. Danny pale and limp, neck bruised with the imprints of meaty fingers. A ruined flat, artwork slashed and the cats cowering underneath the toppled couches. “You remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”

“I know,” Danny groans, one hand drifting up to his neck to rub at the pale skin. Q feels a stab of guilt for reminding his brother of that night, but Danny _needs_ to be careful. “I didn’t stay out long though,” Danny continues, peeking at Q through his lashes in the same way he uses to coax Q into letting him shower first and giving him the last waffle at breakfast. “Only walked around a bit and had some ice cream. It’s so boring, being cooped up at home all day!”

Q sighs. “I guess…”

The puppy eyes get even larger, if that’s possible.

“Okay, okay, fine.” He winces at Danny’s happy squeal. “But you promise you were careful? No magic leakage?”

“None at all,” Danny assures him. “So it’s fine if I go out once in a while? Yeah?”

“Alright,” Q relents. “But I’m adding an extra layer of protection to all your clothes. And I want you to carry combat charms everywhere you go. Better safe than sorry.”

“Okay, mum,” Danny grins, ruffling Q’s hair.

Q squawks indignantly. “I spent an hour getting this to lie straight!”

“You look like a tosser when you comb your hair,” says Danny, not in the least bit apologetic. “Now, about this cape…”

***

In the end, he really does wear the cape. His hands slot into the well-worn pockets like comfortable gloves, and the layer of old herbs and gum wrappers that line the interior gives him something familiar to fiddle with. Q has always been a bit of a fiddler—a trait that has led to many a botched spell.

He does get a few stares, walking down the road. But the looks are more curious than hostile, more admiring than disgusted, and he feels his confidence swell with each step. If anything, this’ll give him something to talk about with Bond.

Oh gods, what shall they _talk_ about? It’s easy when he’s a cat—a few well placed meows and purrs and Bond smiles that gorgeous smile that makes his eyes crinkle and his cheeks dimple. But Q is rubbish at making small talk. What do normal people even talk about? The weather? Celebrity gossip? Stock prices?

Is it too late to read a book on the London Stock Exchange?

Maybe he should turn back. It isn’t as if his life leaves much room for romantic ventures. Who knows when the witchhunters will find them again, and they’ll have to flee under cover of night?

Yes, he should turn back. He really should. Being known as a cat isn’t that bad—

“Excuse me?”

Q yelps at the large body that has suddenly appeared next to him and flinches, taking a step back. His feet get tangled up in each other and the next thing he knows, he’s on his arse in the dirt.

Oh, turn him into a worm so he can burrow into the ground where he belongs.

“Are you alright?” the man is saying, and Q stiffens because fuck, fuck, fuck, _he recognizes that voice._

Trust him to fall on his arse in front of James bloody Bond.

“You’ve been staring off into space for the past five minutes,” James continues, offering Q a large hand. Q takes it, face burning but still quite appreciative of the firm, calloused grip, and hoists himself up. “I was getting worried.”

Q laughs, a weak, breathy thing. “Yeah, yeah. I’m alright. I tend to get lost in thought sometimes.”

“Perfectly understandable,” James assures him. Were his eyes always so blue? The colour vision of a cat is much more muted than that of a human’s, and through these eyes, they fairly blind him. Q is staring. He knows this, but he can’t seem to look away.

He clears his throat. “Are you the owner of this store?” Good, he hasn’t completely lost his wits. He is not supposed to know James, after all.

“I am,” says James, smiling. “Bond. James Bond. Why don’t you come inside? I can’t promise there’ll be less things for you to trip over, but at least I can keep an eye on you.”

“Nice to meet you, James Bond. My name is Q, and—that would be lovely. Sounds like the best course of action for my shins,” Q replies, feeling himself grinning like a maniac.

Predictably, James looks confused at the name. “Q? Like the letter?”

“Yep,” Q agrees cheerily. “Well, it’s Quentin, but my brother’s called me Q since we were kids, so the name stuck.” Privately, Q has always thought Quentin to be a bit snooty, a bit too high-brow for the way he and Danny lived, making their living in the dirt, as it were. Q suits him much better.

“That’s adorable,” says James, eyes crinkling again. He holds the door open for Q like a true gentleman and Q blushes, ducking in self-consciously.

Everything is the same, albeit more colourful, more clear, now that he views the store through human eyes. It’s as if the world tilted upon its axis and everything has shifted the slightest degree. But he knows this store, the battered cash register that startled him with its loud clangs and the pool of sunlight on the ground where he loved to take his naps.

“Lovely place,” Q says, trying to inject the words with all the sincerity he feels.

“Thank you,” says Bond. “It’s been my life for a few years now. I find that botany is quite the satisfying line of work.”

“Oh, I agree!” Q cries. “Watching a new sprout poke through the dirt or a bud burst open? There’s nothing quite like it.”

Bond looks pleasantly surprised. “Do you work with plants as well?”

“Sort of,” says Q, trying to think of a way to explain his pursuits in more...mundane terms. “I focus less on raising and selling plants and more on their properties and uses.”

“Like herbology?” Bond teases, eyes twinkling mischievously. “When did you graduate from Hogwarts?”

The Harry Potter comparison, though apt, makes him grimace. “Judging from your wrinkles, same year you beat out Flamel for ‘Oldest Wizard Alive’,” he counters. Not that Bond has any wrinkles; the crags on his face lend him a mature visage, rather than decrepit.

James clutches a hand to his chest, eyes widening in faux offense. “I’ll have you know I’m not a day over 300!”

And this is easy. Fun, even. Q doesn’t feel tongue-tied or awkward, the way he does when chatting with so many others. He’d known that James is kind, and good with animals (an essential trait if he’s ever to meet Turing and Pam), but he hadn’t realised how easy the man is to talk to, or the obvious wit that belies his every sentence.

In a word, he’s so fucked.

“So what are you here for today?” James asks, leaning against the counter. Every tendon in his forearms stand out and his musculature is so obvious that Q barely bites back the word, “You.”

“Digitalis,” Q blurts out, the first thing that pops up in his mind.

James frowns, crossing his arms. “Foxglove? You planning on poisoning someone?”

“Hardly,” Q scoffs. “It gets a bad reputation, but chemicals extracted from foxglove are essential components of most modern heart medicines.” And for breaking particularly stubborn enchantments, but he doesn’t mention that bit.

“If you say so,” James agrees, amicable. He snaps on a pair of heavy gardening gloves and grabs a stepladder, placing it below a row of dried plants hanging from the ceiling. “If I get pulled in for accessory to murder, I’ll deny any knowledge.”

Q chuckles, watching James’ arse unashamedly. His trousers are sensible but well-fitted, revealing quite the nice curve under the heavy apron he wears. His eyes drift up and James is watching him, amused glint in his eyes and Q flushes, caught out.

“How many stalks?” James asks.

“Hmm?”

“Of the foxglove,” James reminds him patiently, scissors hanging in mid-air.

Oh, right. The foxglove he doesn’t need. “Seven stalks,” Q tells him. He might as well stock up before the winter months roll around. “And dried coltsfoot, if you’ve any?”

“Unusual request, but alright.” A few snips later and James is on the group, carefully wrapping his foxglove up in wax paper and twine. He then reaches under the counter and withdraws a large glass jar. “Dare I ask what nefarious purpose this will be used for?”

Q tucks the parcel into his robe pocket and grins. “Nothing very dastardly, I’m afraid. I get terrible chest colds and tea brewed with coltsfoot leaves is the only thing that soothes my ails.”

“Have you tried Tylenol?” James asks, in a voice too placid to be innocent, and Q smacks him on the arm, good-natured.

“Only every time I visit the doctor’s,” Q grumbles. No invention of modern science is sophisticated enough to replace a good tincture. He accepts the small bottle of herbs and digs through his cape for coins. From one pocket he pulls out a couple of bird feathers. From another, two stray tarot cards from his Famous Priestesses Throughout History deck, which he’d long believed to be missing. He glances at them and smiles internally: the lovers and the wheel of fortune. How very fitting.

James studies him, head tilted like a bird. “I’ve been meaning to ask…”

“The robe?”  Q concludes. James nods, and he tugs at the sleeves, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s a little strange, isn’t it? I really ever wear it around the house.”

“No,” James assures him. “It suits you perfectly. You look like a proper wizard, dashing about and fighting Dark Lords.”

If only he knew how true his words were. Q blushes at the praise, strange as it is, and smooths the sleeves down with more confidence.

After he pays, Q lingers at the register, parcels stowed away snug and safe, but unwilling to leave just yet. James is just as interesting as he’d hoped. Gorgeous and clever, and so charming it makes Q want to swoon like a Victorian maiden.

He’s already been brave enough for a day. He doesn’t need to do this. But James is smiling at him, and he takes the plunge.

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asks, tentative and shy. Surely he hasn’t read the signals wrong? Surely James doesn’t smile so flirtatiously at all of his customers, doesn’t tease them as if he’s known them for years, rather than the span of a few minutes?

James suddenly looks uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck. “Err, I—I’m not really looking to date anyone right now.”

Q’s stomach sinks to his feet. His face feels hot, sweaty and prickly and he’s positive he’s sweated through his cardigan already. “Oh, no, that’s fine! Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It really isn’t you—“

“—I should get going.”

They stare at each other. Q looks away first, determinedly studying a pot of something near the register that he realises to be lavender. The memory nearly makes him break out in tears, right there in front of James. _Pull yourself together,_ he tells himself, vicious. _It’s only a bloke. No need to be so damned emotional._

“I’m sorry, Q,” says James, too damned sincere for Q to be angry at. “I really do hope I’ll see you again. I enjoyed talking to you.”

Q mumbles something, he’s not sure what, and runs out.


	7. Chapter 7

“I’m going to die alone,” Q moans for the hundredth time that day.

Danny considers himself the good natured type—a little bit reckless, sure, a little bit too blunt when he’s faced with something he doesn’t like. But if Q doesn’t stop with his self-pity soon, he’s going to shove a sock in his brother’s mouth. The ceiling’s been raining this entire time and Q seems to have no intention of making it stop.

“No you won’t,” he says instead. Truthfully, he could have said, “James Bond is secretly betrothed to me and also I am pregnant” and Q wouldn’t bat an eye, as embroiled in his own melodrama as he is.

Q rolls onto his face on the hardwood floor where he has been lying for the better part of an hour. “I’m going to _die alone_. The only ones who love me are the cats, right darlings?”

Silence.

“ _Right_ , darlings?” Q calls, raising his voice. No response, although Danny is not surprised. Turing and Pampuria are temperamental on the best of days. They have better things to do than tend to an owner in distress. Like battling Q’s decanters onto the floor, or chewing Danny’s shoelaces.

Q groans again, letting his face fall with a dull _thump_ that makes Danny wince.

“Alright,” Danny decides. “Enough is enough. When you said we’d spend the weekend together, I didn’t imagine this.” He tugs Q into a sitting position—harder than it looks, since Q is doing a fine impression of a rag doll. “Now quit feeling sorry for yourself and get up, unless you want me to light all your incense at once and set the cottage on fire.” As if they’d light in this downpour.

That gets a reaction out of Q, and he glares through a mop of sopped hair. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” Danny sings, making a run for the door. He gets maybe two steps before Q tugs him down by the ankle and he falls arse-over-tits, doing a spectacular somersault that nearly launches him straight into the doorframe.

Q curses and shakes his wrist out. “You nearly tore my arm off, you arse.”

Oh, Danny could just wring his neck.

***

Danny knows, through years and years of past experience, that there are a few subjects guaranteed to distract Q no matter what the circumstance. Types of tea. Celtic mythology on faeries. The cats. And of course, his spellwork.

Thank the gods for magic.

“I need a pinch of sulfur and a copper penny,” says Q, his glasses steamed over by the bubbling cauldron before him. Danny has no idea what they’re making—Q had flipped to a random page in the grimoire and obscured the title. They could be brewing anything, from a love potion to an explosive that would level half of England.

Danny sincerely hopes it’s not the latter.

He drops the items in front of Q and returns to his previous task: chopping up a handful of jasmine into small flakes. Danny loves prepping ingredients, even though Q has no patience for it. Q is interested in the big picture, the chemistry behind the interaction of ingredients and the moment when the magic grabs hold. Danny prefers the small, insignificant details that stack up.

Still, one thing they can both agree on is that they both love this new workshop. In London, they made do with a small kitchen nook, stained with the various explosions and overbrewed herbs they’d amassed. But here—here, in this lovely cottage that throbs with life as surely as blood runs through their veins, the sky is the limit. And Danny feels at home behind the sparkling glass walls and long workbenches, the screens monitoring various experiments and crystals piled on every surface not covered by papers.

“I love this place,” Danny declares, feeling warm and content.

Q peers up at him. He looks every inch the mad scientist, eyes wide and focused and hair standing on end. “Yeah?”

Danny nods, thinking of the pleasant mornings spent arranging everything to his liking, the kind people they had met in town, and Joe. Oh, Joe. “It’s great. I’m glad we came here—disregarding the reason for the move, of course.”

Q is silent for a few moments. Danny wonders what he’s thinking, if he’s thinking of Bond or remembering those last, harrowing nights in London. Then Q smiles.

“Me too. It’s charming, isn’t it? You almost feel like nothing can touch us here.”

They settle into an easy rhythm. Q stirring the brew with slow, measured movements, Danny grinding licorice root into fine powder. Danny watches him, the way his gaze drifts off every so often, the way he avoids the heap of coltsfoot lying in the middle of the table, the way he licks his lips nervously every few seconds, and his heart clenches.

“I’m sorry about Bond,” Danny blurts out.

Q sighs.

“Me too. And—I’m sorry I’ve been whinging on about it.”

“Yeah, you’ve been a real drag,” Danny teases, sticking his tongue out when Q squints at him. “But really, it’ll be fine. You’ll meet someone else, as cliché as it sounds.”

“Maybe,” Q says, but he doesn’t sound hopeful about it. Before Danny can say anything else, Q reaches over his shoulder and takes the little mortar full of powder, dumping it into the pot.

“Look!” Q gasps. Danny peers over, resting his head on Q’s shoulder. The substance in the cauldron is thickening, until all that remains is a small, hard thing, in the shape of an egg and bright purple in colour. They nod at each other, and Q puts on a pair of gloves, lifting it out and cracking it on the table.

Nothing happens.

“Did it fail?” Danny asks, but Q puts up a hand.

Q sniffs at the air, frowning. “Do you smell that…?”

The scent of lilies fills the air. At first a light, airy fragrance, but increasing in intensity by the second. Pretty soon, everything smells cloying and overly sweet, like death. They both gag.

“Perfume bomb!” Danny squeals, and they’re covering their noses and stumbling towards the windows, clutching their bellies in laughter.

***

Days pass, and with it Danny’s hope of Joe ever calling him. He’s gone through all the stages, from checking his phone every five minutes, to wondering if Joe’s forgotten his number after all and perhaps he should try finding him in town, to burning a small pinecone in effigy.

It’s fine, really. Joe had seemed hesitant, at best, throughout their entire conversation. He’d probably only promised to call to be polite. And sure, it’s a bit disappointing cause he’d really thought there to be a sort of connection between them, but life is full of disappointments, right? You just have to keep your chin up and trek on.

His phone buzzes. Danny falls off his chair, fumbling at the bright screen to unlock it.

“Hello?” he whispers into the speaker, nerves alight with excitement. Could it be—could Joe have—

“Hey, I’m at the market. D’you think there’s a difference between free-range and organic eggs?”

Q, of course. Doing the weekly shopping. Danny could cry.

“Doesn’t matter,” he tells Q, trying to disguise the way his excitement instantly fades. “Not like either one of us can taste the difference.”

“True, true. Well, ta.”

“Ta,” Danny tells him, and hangs up. Damn it all to hell.

The phone rings again, and Danny rolls his eyes. Q overthinks everything. Probably wondering if he should get the “triple-strength” or the “ultra clean” dish soap.

“Seriously, most of that crap’s just advertising, anyway,” he says without preamble. “You could get the cheapest brand they have and it’ll be as good as anything else.”

Silence for a few seconds. Did Q drop the call?

“Hello, Danny. This is Joe, from the other day. Is this a bad time?”

Danny absolutely, positively does not gasp out loud.

“Joe!” he cries, voice abnormally high and shrill. Play it cool, Danny. He’ll think you’re unbalanced. “No, no. this is perfect. I’m glad you called.”

Joe sighs in—that couldn’t be _relief_ , could it? As if Danny would ever tell him to piss off. “I know this is rather sudden, but would you care to join me for a late brunch?”

“ _Absolutely,”_ Danny tells him, beaming. He jots down the location and time Joe’s specified and hangs up, grinning like Q after two nights without sleep and countless shots of espresso. Joe’s called him. Joe wants to have brunch with him. Brunch. What a sophisticated meal, reminiscent of sharply dressed business men and elegant women in sundresses and bright lipstick. Joe is such an adult in comparison to him and Q, who’d had a bowl of cocoa puffs each yesterday morning.

Oh right, Q. He pulls out his phone and fires off a quick text to his brother. _Going out. Be back before the wolves come out._

The response comes a few seconds later. _Be safe._

More to humour Q than anything else, he tucks a vial of miniature explosives into his pocket and a Poultice of Paralysis, wrapped carefully in thick cloth, in the bottom of his shoe. He’s pretty sure that Joe isn’t a psycho murderer, and besides, what kind of witch hunter would live in a sleepy little town like this one? But better safe than sorry, he supposes.

With a last glance into the mirror and a ruffle of his hair, Danny bounds out the door.

***

_De Beauvoir smoked salmon ‘HIX’ cure with scrambled Burford Brown eggs ~ 9.95_

_Corned leaf hash with a double yolker ~ 11.95_

_Eggs Benedict, Smoked salmon or Florentine 8.75 sml/15.50lge_

What the hell is all of this.

Joe looks up at Danny. He looks good, dressed in an impeccable grey suit that brings out the depths of his eyes. Danny’s not usually one to feel self-conscious, but he has to admit how underdressed he looks next to Joe, in his Batman t-shirt and ratty jeans. Danny forces a grin and returns to his scrutiny of the menu.

Oh, this isn’t good. He and Q aren’t _poor_ , per se, but they don’t quite go for restaurants like this one either. Most of what they earn from selling potions and spells online (under the very tacky [www.magiksrus.uk](http://www.magiksrus.uk)) go towards groceries, spell ingredients, and kitty litter. Danny has a ten pound note in his pocket and nothing else.

A gentle hand pushes his menu down and Joe leans over conspiratorially. “I can pay.”

Danny flushes red. Great. Now Joe thinks he’s a charity case. “No, no,” he laughs in what he hopes is a nonchalant way. “No, I’ll just…” Order a glass of water, most likely.

But when the waitress ambles over, Joe orders for him. Something French that he hasn’t a hope of being able to pronounce. Joe seems much more comfortable in this sophisticated place than he did the other day, blushing over a bowl of ice cream. He gives their order with a polite sort of confidence that isn’t at all overbearing and which Danny finds incredibly attractive. He can’t seem to stop staring.

When the waitress walks away, he clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says.

Joe nods. “It’s no problem. I’m the one who invited you, so it’s only fair that I should pay.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d decided against calling me,” Danny laughs again. He’s realising that he does that a lot around Joe. Nervous laughter. Like this is his first date and he’s a gangly teenager again.

“I almost did,” Joe admits. He delivers this in the same measured tone he’s used for everything else, and Danny isn’t sure how he should react. Be happy that he’s apparently passed some sort of test he hadn’t known about? Be exasperated at how Joe blows hot and cold, setting Danny’s head spinning like a carousel? Laugh it off?

“Why didn’t you?” he finally decides.

Joe looks straight at him. “Otherwise, how do you know?” he says, echoing Danny’s words from that last meeting. And Danny, for all he usually chatters on and on, can’t think of a single response to that.

They sit in comfortable silence until the food arrives and Danny is relieved to see that despite the unpronounceable name, his meal is a hearty-looking plate of stuffed crepes and fresh fruit. Joe has a platter of what looks to be fancy meat and some sort of lavishly garnished egg. They begin eating, the food fairly bursting with flavour on Danny’s tongue.

“This is really good,” he says conversationally, when they’ve both made a fair dent in their food. “I wouldn’t have expected a place like this to be in a small town.”

“Robert, the owner, has a passion for fine dining,” Joe explains.

Danny whistles. “You know the owner?”

Joe shrugs. “Part of my job. And as I said last time, I have a good memory.”

Danny forks a slice of peach and tosses it into his mouth. Something about the wording sparks a bit of his own memory. “Speaking of last time, you said you were following a lead? How’s that going?”

It’s as if he’s flipped a switch. Joe’s easy demeanour freezes and he might as well be carved from stone. From the tight press of his lips, Danny can tell there’s no way he’ll be able to get a proper answer out of Joe.

“Sorry, sorry,” Danny backtracks, a bit confused. It’s only a job, isn’t it? Are most finance journalists so paranoid about their secrecy?

A thought crosses his mind. What if he’s not a journalist? Danny is already reasonably sure that Joe is lying about his name. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that he hasn’t been truthful about his profession either. And if he’s lying about all those things, how could Danny possibly trust him? And what’s he really doing here?

For the first time, he wonders if he’ll need those protective spells after all.

Joe sighs at last, his eyes softening into something warmer. “I apologize. I don’t mean to be so rude. My employers would prefer me to keep a certain degree of secrecy about my investigation, that’s all. There are…less savoury sorts that may overhear, and complicate my work.

Danny breathes out, relieved. Of course. Intellectual theft. That’s all.

“It’s no problem,” he tells Joe, taking his hand. Joe seems a little startled by the gesture, but not displeased, so Danny keeps it there. “Um, I don’t understand anything about finance, so I won’t pry if you don’t want to talk about it, but I really just want to know more about you. Isn’t that what people do on a date?”

Joe nods, looking at their empty plates before signalling the waitress for the bill. “Would you like to take another walk?”

***

They find themselves back on that same stretch of beach, Joe walking placidly while Danny kicks at the stones at his feet, sending them skittering into the water. He’s got a good grip on his magic today, he thinks. No accidents yet. No itchy feeling that usually signals the onslaught of an outburst.

“Will you tell me your real name now?” he asks, feeling brave. It’s the least he can expect, after all.

Thankfully, Joe doesn’t seem offended at being caught out. “It’s Alex,” he says.

Danny was rather hoping for an explanation for the lie, but when none seems to be coming, he tries again. “And are you telling the truth this time? It’s just—you’re a bit like a spy, aren’t you? Using alias, not saying a thing about your work. Am I going to have MI6 knocking at my door?”

Jo— _Alex_ is quiet for a moment, but Danny doesn’t mind this time. Alex seems to require more time than most people to sort out his thoughts. While Alex mulls this over, Danny hops onto a wooden beam, foundation for a pier that must’ve rotted away, and begins walking across it, arms spread wide for balance. When he turns to face Alex again, he finds the man watching him with a perplexed expression.

“What?” Danny asks, a bit self-conscious.

Alex shakes his head. “You’re an open book. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Danny asks, frowning.

“No, not at all. It’s refreshing,” Alex assures him. He’s smiling to himself, a small, private thing that stirs Danny’s blood and all of a sudden, he _wants._ He wants to see Alex with something other than perfect calm on his face. He wants to see his cheeks flushed, his chest heaving, his mouth working with frustrated desire.

He leans forward and kisses Alex.

Danny can fairly taste the surprise on his mouth. At first Alex’s lips are cool and unyielding, as unflappable as the rest of the man, but then Alex draws in a ragged breath and Danny can feel the way his lips tremble, the way he sighs and yields and relaxes into the kiss. Alex is obviously inexperienced; his teeth bang against Danny’s a few times and he doesn’t seem to know how to move his mouth. But it’s the best kiss Danny’s ever had, and he’s more than happy to guide Alex through it.

They both draw back for air, and Danny’s heart flip-flops. Alex’s eyes are so wide he can see the flecks of blue in the grey and he’s looking at Danny like a man possessed. He touches his tingling lips and watches as Alex does the same thing, seemingly unconscious of his actions.

“Wow,” Danny laughs, breathless. Alex doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to. One look at his face and Danny can see how earth-shattering it was for him too.

He feels vindicated. Intuition, intuition, intuition. Hadn’t he known there was something special between him and the man he’d known as Joe? It doesn’t matter if Alex is quiet and pensive, or if he’s got so many skeletons in his closet they put even Danny’s to shame. What matters is that they’re _good_ together, and the kiss proves it.

Underwater, unbeknownst to either Danny or Alex, a row of dirty beer bottles shatter. Fish dart away in all directions.

At the end of the date, Alex holds out his hand again, just like the last time, and Danny stares at him incredulously.

“You’ve got to stop shaking my hand,” Danny teases, shaking his head. This man.

Alex frowns at first, as if he thinks Danny is genuinely upset, but then he relaxes. “Then, how about this?” he asks before kissing Danny on the lips again.

_Perfect_ , Danny doesn’t say, as he draws Alex closer.


	8. Chapter 8

At the same time that Alex invites Danny to brunch, James is entering the local grocer’s shop. The weekly groceries are one of the only reasons he ever leaves his flower shop anymore. That, and annual florist conventions.

He hates it. The way conversations trickle away when they see him. The knowing glances and sympathetic head tilts. Even worse, the way some well-meaning women promise to set him up with their own daughters. Or themselves.

His wife has been dead for years, but that doesn’t mean he’s rearing to line up replacements. Bond likes his privacy, and as lonely as it can get, it’s still better than having the town snooping in his affairs.

On a Sunday morning, the grocer’s is blessedly empty. Most of the town attends church on these days, many for the sake of socialising rather than out of some true devotion to God. Bond, neither a religious or social man, chooses to forego the event. Instead, he picks out a basket and begins loading it with the essentials for the week. Eggs, milk, tomatoes.

Bond pauses at the tinned goods aisle and after a moment’s thought, places two tins of tuna in his basket. Shadow’s been strange lately, and Bond is worried. The little cat has been skittish and erratic, jerking away from Bond’s touch no matter how gentle he is and bolting away at random. On the occasions he stays, he slumps on the shelves, away from Bond’s reach, and lies on his two front paws, blinking forlornly.

He wonders if Shadow’s had a run-in with another cat, or perhaps some other large animal. He wonders if he should have taken the cat home with him after all, except Shadow always seems to have somewhere to disappear to when he’s not lounging around Bond’s shop. Now that he really stops to think about it, he hasn’t the faintest idea if Shadow has an owner, but he must, right? No stray cat has a coat as well-groomed as his, and he never seems to be starving, though he’ll always help himself to the food Bond sets out.

Look at him, worrying so much about a cat. Bond smiles, rueful, and continues on. He’s rounding the corner when someone crashes into him, and the contents of his basket fly to the ground.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the man gasps, and Bond frowns, because this voice is familiar—

A pair of green eyes glance up at him and they both freeze.

Ah, Bond _does_ know this man. This _boy_. The one who had come into his store the week before to purchase herbs—foxglove and coltsfoot, if he remembers correctly. The ones with the expressive eyes that sparkled when he laughed and dimmed when Bond had rejected him. The back of his neck itches. He wonders how unseemly it would be if he ran out the door right now.

But the boy, Q, gulps, and Bond softens, because he can see how uncomfortable this is for him as well. “No cape this time?” he asks, teasing gently as he bends down to pick up the spilled remnants of his basket.

Q huffs out a laugh, but Bond’s sharp eyes don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth trembles. “Not when I’m doing the shopping, no. Don’t want to get stains on the lining.”

It’s not as if he doesn’t look good in the simple shirt and trousers, but Bond did like that cape. He looked proper mysterious, like a grand wizard gathering ingredients for a potion. Not that Bond has any right to tell him what to wear, of course. He shakes his head, clearing his mind of the memories of Q last time they’d met. When he opens his eyes again, Q is bent down right next to him.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but Q smiles.

“Please, let me. It’s the least I can do after having caused this mess.”

James nods, not knowing what else to say, and tries not to look at Q as he tosses oranges back in their bag. It’s harder than he expects. Even his hands are mesmerising, long elegant things that move like ballet dancers under the fluorescence of the grocery shop. There are callouses on his palms and on the tips of his second and third fingers, speaking of either long hours spent typing or doing manual labour. Judging from Q’s frame, it’s likely the former.

And he really needs to stop analysing Q. They’re not at war, and Q isn’t an enemy agent. Just a handsome lad who James can’t give the time of day.

He flashes a polite smile when everything is back in their rightful spots. “Well, thank you, Q. It was a pleasure running into you again.”

Q hears the goodbye for what it is, and nods. “Right, you too, James. Have a good day.”

Bond watches the boy walk away and his heart twinges. Not because Q looks like a pitiful thing—far from it, in fact. His spine is straight and his steps are not the least hesitant. But it’s that strength that calls to Bond, that makes his eyes linger after Q even from across the store. And isn’t _that_ pitiful? Himself a washed out old man, eyeing a lovely boy from behind a shelf of beans.

He’s always been attracted to powerful people. And something tells him he hasn’t even begun to see the depths of Q’s own power.

Well, he’s no one to blame but himself. Bond could call out to him, ask for a do-over and invite Q for coffee—there’s a great little place nearby that does a heavenly cup of espresso. He doesn’t though, and as the door chimes shut behind Q, an overwhelming feeling of loss sweeps over him, like he’s lost something he never realised was there.

Gramma Betty, as everyone in town calls her, grins a gummy smile at James when he approaches the register. “New beau, Jaime?”

“It’s James,” Bond reminds her, as he always does. He’s convinced she does it on purpose at this point. “And no, just a customer from a few days ago.”

Betty clucks and swats him on the side of his head. “Now Jaime, don’t lie to an old bird like me. Pretty young thing like that? Why, you’d be blind not to want a piece of that!”

“Betty, please,” James laughs, shaking his head at the woman’s lack of filter. And truth be told, blind he is not. Of course he can see that Q is attractive. Unfairly so. But he cannot. He _cannot_ , not after the pain of losing Vesper. Bond is not the fearless soldier of decades past. His bones are weary, and he cannot handle more devastation of such magnitude.

Q has the kind of heartbreaking smile that leaves Bond with no doubt; this boy could bring him to his knees if he let him.

Unfortunately for him, the old woman is relentless. “You really ought to ask him out. Eyes like that? He’ll be snatched up within days!”

“I don’t doubt it,” James agrees magnanimously, even as his stomach twists at the thought of Q turning his clumsy charm on someone else. If James were a lesser man, he’d invite Q into his bed for a quick tumble, something to get the boy out of his system once and for all. And if he was still that same brash naval officer from before, maybe he would have.

Not now, though. He could never do that to Q.

He pays and bids Betty a good day, letting her kiss his cheek in goodbye. Enough about Q. He’s got enough to occupy him: seed orders, of course. And another full day in the greenhouse to prepare for the changing weather. It’s getting colder, and some of the more delicate plants will have to be covered in preparation. Yes, yes, his plants.

In the months after the death, whenever Bond woke up to a cold bed, he would catalogue flowers in his head. Starting from angel-wing begonias and continuing until his head was clear again, and he could drift off to sleep once more. That’s what he should do now.

Except when he gets outside, there he is again. A mirror image of the scene from earlier, except this time it’s Q with a puddle of spilled groceries on the ground. And he’s not doing a thing to pick them up; only staring at them, unmoving.

“Everything alright?” Bond asks, approaching slowly. He’s not quite sure how welcome his presence will be received.

Q doesn’t seem very surprised to see him again—merely weary. “Ah, bag broke,” he sighs, finally seeming to snap out of his fugue. “Karma for knocking your basket over, perhaps?”

“And you were just staring at it?” James teases. “Did you think the groceries would float to your house on their own?”

Q doesn’t say anything, and Bond winces, wondering if he came across as too rude. A recluse he may be, but he is still a Brit, and a gentleman no less. “I apologise, I misspoke.”

“Well, you can make it up to me by helping _me_ this time,” Q chuckles. “My ice cream is melting as we speak.”

It would be so much easier to shake his interest in Q if he wasn’t so damned amusing. Bond could spend hours listening to the soft cadence of Q’s voice, his self-effacing humour and quick-witted jibes. Bond complies and begins helping Q load the stray veggies and meats into the other bags.

“Ah, the culprit,” Bond says, brandishing a jug of apple cider in his hand. “Betty never remembers to pack by weight instead of size. You’re not the only one this has happened to.”

Q huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, setting the jug to one side. “Next time, I’ll bring my own bags.”

“You ought to come by the shop again, sometime,” says Bond, apropos of nothing He glances away from the flash of shock that ripples across Q’s face. He’s allowed to be a little bit selfish, isn’t he? Any amount of time spent in Q’s presence is a weakness, but he doesn’t have to _fuck_ him. Bond’s almost forgotten how lonely he is, but times like this, spent talking to another person just summons the familiar empty feeling again. “I’d like to talk to you again. You’ve a fine way with the plants.”

Q doesn’t respond, and it worries Bond. What if Q thinks he’s toying with him? He tries to catch Q’s eye, but the other man just fiddles with the fraying straps of his bags. His nails catch again and again on the plastic. Bond’s certain that another one will snap before Q gets home.

“I’d understand if you don’t want to,” he assures quickly. “I just thought…maybe we could both use a friend.”

This time, Q smiles, like he understands.

“I think so too.”

***

Alistair’s small smile melts away as soon as the motel door closes behind him.

He is compromised.

He can only imagine what Francis would say, if she was here right now. Years of relentless training, of numbing himself to any desire for companionship, ruined. One attractive boy who shows him the least bit of attention and his mind freezes like a skittish deer. Like prey.

But it’s more than that. Danny isn’t just the first man who’s shown an interest in him. He’s also Alex’s first _friend_. Danny cares more about how Alex’s day was than how many hours he spent at the firing range. He doesn’t roll his eyes at Alex’s inability to socialise like a normal person. He’s interested in Alex’s life, his thoughts and opinions.

All dangerous things, of course. Already Alex has told him more than he should have. In the past he’d lived like a ghost, flickering between sterile hotel rooms to the edges of crowds to single tables at restaurants. Francis once told him that he had a face for forgetting, and perhaps it was meant as a compliment—as much of a compliment as Francis is able to muster, but that doesn’t mean Alex doesn’t hate it.

So many days he’d just walk, let himself get swept up in the ebb and flow of the life around him and for a few minutes, he could almost pretend he’s one of them. That he has a crummy downtown flat and a boring, nine-to-five job, that he has mates to go out for a pint with, maybe even a boyfriend to kiss when he gets home at night. But then the crowd dissipates, the illusion shatters, and Alex is left standing there by himself again.

He has a dangerous witch to kill and an organization to return to, but can’t he have this, if only for a few days? Alex could almost taste the innocence on Danny’s lips. Danny’s never known how it feels to crush a man’s windpipe beneath his palms, or the way magical burns linger for weeks after normal burns have healed.

Maybe after this is over, Alistair Turner can retire.

Until then. For now, Alistair sighs and returns to his map of the UK. It is meticulously labeled; purple dots in the locations where known witches have congregated in the past, yellow dots where flares of power have emerged. He has no doubt that his errant witches are here; the latest spurt of abnormal activity had occurred by the water, about a week ago. Danny had believed it to be a natural occurrence, but the suddenness of it, the scale of the tide, can only lead to one possible conclusion.

The witches are here, and they are dangerous. Alistair’s stomach twists to think of them hurting Danny. No, no, he won’t let them. This is what he’s trained for: to protect those like Danny, the ones who aren’t aware of the danger out there.

To calm his thoughts, he goes over the evidence again. A trail of outbursts in central London, timing varying between all hours of the day. Almost always some sort of environmental abnormality—sudden gusts of wind, drops in atmospheric pressure in precise locations. Spontaneous plant overgrowth is a common one. The outbursts had stopped suddenly about a month ago, but they’ve begun again. Here.

It’s a small town. Alistair will hunt them down eventually. Any newcomers, travelling salesmen, even past residents who’ve moved back to town. Danny can’t be the only one who’s come here recently.

He’s so close to figuring it out. Just one more piece…

 


	9. Chapter 9

A part of Danny expects his newfound relationship to flounder pretty much immediately. He has little in common with Alex, who is posh and refined and drinks black coffee with his morning cuppa. Who uses words like “carafe” and “disseminate”. In comparison, Danny may as well be a jam-smeared toddler.

But to his shock and delight, a week passes, then two, and Alex still doesn’t leave. They go for dinner dates at the greasy diner Danny loves and Alex feigns polite interest in (Danny saw him shudder when a chip landed on his trousers), take long walks in the countryside, and even catch a movie together at the local drive-in. It’s all very sweet and uncomplicated and perfect in every way possible.

Still, at the three-week mark, Danny begins to get antsy.

It starts with innocent questions. “Can I drop off my leftovers at your place?” he’ll ask after a meal, brandishing a greasy sack of noodles and won ton soup.

And Alex will wince apologetically, usually with something along the lines of “Your house may be closer,” or “My fridge is quite full already.”

Or Danny will yawn and linger at the entrance of the motel, hoping Alex will invite him inside, only to be sent off with a gentle kiss and a smile before the door closes.

Maybe part of the reason is Alex’s inexperience. If Alex has never had a boyfriend before, perhaps he just can’t read the signals Danny is sending out. So Danny, as with all things in his life, decides to stop thinking and just _go for it._

“So, when will you ever invite me inside?” he asks one night, when they’re sitting at the beach with wet sand soaking through their trousers— _his_ trousers; Alex’s are waterproof because he is a Responsible Adult.

Alex looks surprised, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Why would you want that?”

Danny shrugs, suddenly shy. He busies himself with tracing patterns through the sand and tries to think up a valid reason that doesn’t contain the words “shag” or “overnight”.

“You’re distracting yourself with mindless, repetitive action,” Alex says, tilting his head. He’s annoyingly good at reading Danny, though half the time Danny still has no idea what Alex is thinking. “Why are you embarrassed?”

Danny chuckles, shaking his head and smearing the spirals he’d drawn with one foot. “I just, you know, when you invite a boyfriend over, there’s usually a certain connotation behind it. And I thought, maybe...?”

Alex’s eyes widen. So he does understand.

“I mean, I don’t just want to shag!” Danny cries, maybe a bit too loud, because a young family a ways off turn to stare at them. Alex quirks a small smile, and Danny blushes. “It would be nice, you know? If you’re ready, that is. But, um, I’d like to see where you live too, even if it’s not really yours, and...yeah,” he trails off lamely.

“You’ve never invited me to your home,” Alex points out, quite reasonably.

Danny can hardly suppress his wince at the thought of Alex, prim and proper Alex in his mess of a cottage. Never mind the dirty dishes in the sink and the collection of old socks on his bedroom floor; Alex would run screaming if he ever saw the way the house shuffled rooms around or created staircases out of thin air. “Oh, maybe one day,” he says carelessly. “Still a ton of boxes lying around from moving. Plus you’ll have to meet my brother, and I’m not prepared for that yet.”

Alex nods wisely. “Meeting the family of romantic partners is often reserved for longer relationships than our own.”

Even though he knows it’s silly, Danny still feels a jolt of excitement whenever Alex refers to their relationship as such. Alex isn’t a normally expressive man, and Danny hangs onto each small moment like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“Right, one step at a time,” says Danny. “So…?”

Alex sighs and rubs at his face. In the dim light of sundown, Danny can just make out the dusky blush over the bridge of his nose. “You know that I’ve never engaged in...sexual activities before.”

“That’s perfectly fine!” Danny rushes to assure. “I’m not pressuring you or anything. I just wanted you to know that I’m ready, if you are, and anyway we don’t have to do anything, and—”

“Danny,” Alex smiles, resting a hand on his shoulder. Danny stares at him with wide eyes. “That wasn’t a no.”

***

Alex’s motel room is pretty much what Danny expects to find: suits hung neatly in the closet, suitcases stacked neatly by the foot of the bed, not a single personal artifact in sight. Even the bathroom sink is free of suds (Danny might’ve snooped around a bit when he went to ‘clean up’, though he’ll never admit to it). There’s no sign of whatever Alex is working on; he must’ve tidied before Danny arrived.

Danny’s a little disappointed. He’d been harbouring a secret fantasy of being welcomed by champagne and candlelight. Well, it’s alright. Alex isn’t that type of man, and anyway he doesn’t need those things.

“I apologise for the mess,” Alex says behind him. Danny wheels around, a sound of disbelief on his tongue, only to find Alex smiling.

“You’re messing with me!” Danny accuses, beaming. It’s sometimes hard to tell when Alex is making an attempt at humour, but Danny finds that he likes it. Not at all like the boy from Aberdeen who thought “yer mam” jokes were the height of comedy.

“I am,” Alex admits. “Would you care for a drink?”

Danny nods and sits down on the king-sized bed, bouncing slightly. The sheets are softer than his, and a rather intimidating hue of slate. He’d swear that Alex bought these on his own, or else brought them from his own home. The thought pleases him. They’re about to make love on Alex’s sheets. He’s about to make love with Alex. He’s so involved in his private excitement that it takes a minute to register the bottle Alex is brandishing with pride.

Danny gasps, joy bubbling up his chest. “You bought champagne?”

“I may have perused some literature on seduction,” Alex admits, pulling out two flutes from an upper cabinet. “May I pour you a glass?”

“You may,” Danny beams, taking one of the glasses. He has no idea how to hold it, shifting his grip awkwardly from his whole palm clamped around the glass to two fingers around the stem. In the end, he decides to just imitate Alex’s grip: three fingers on one side of the stem, thumb on the other. They clink glasses and Danny sips, letting the bubbly drink dance on his throat—

— and nearly spits it out.

“Danny?” Alex asks, frowning.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Danny gasps. “Just got a bit up my nose is all.” He can’t explain how the champagne turned into thick honey when it touched his tongue.

Alex chuckles, leaning over and kissing Danny soundly. “You are lovely.”

“I think you’ve pronounced ‘ridiculous’ wrong,” Danny says, heart still pounding like a freight train. Really, is he cursed? Why does his magic always seem to act up at the worst possible time? When he gets home, he should ask Q to perform a purification on him. He has to be cursed. It’s the only explanation.

Taking a deep breath, Danny pushes the thoughts out of his head, reaches for the hem of Alex’s shirt. He’s not going to let magic spoil this night. He’s not going to let _anything_ spoil this night. This is going to be perfect.

***

How could things have gone this wrong?

Danny had wanted this night to be _perfect_. Slow, gentle sex, with lots of kissing and sweet words whispered into each other’s ear. Then afterwards, cuddling in bed and arguing over who has to sleep in the wet spot. Falling asleep wrapped up in each other’s arms, legs tangled, breaths intermingling. That was supposed to be the plan.

Instead, Danny is alone in bed with a wilted erection while Alex has locked himself in the bathroom. He can hear the water running, which hopefully means Alex hasn’t snuck out the window, but that’s little comfort.

It had been apparently within seconds that it was not going to work. Alex had been tense, the muscles in his jaw jumping whenever Danny went anywhere near his hole. Danny had asked if he was okay, had pulled back whenever Alex winced, but Alex had insisted. The whole affair had ended with Danny attempting to ram his cock into a hole the size of a buttonhole, something unpleasant and uncomfortable for the both of them.

And now Alex is locked in the bathroom.

Danny sighs, wrapping the sheet tighter around his waist. The room seems colder than it had been before. Oppressive without Alex’s steady presence around. He needs to be near Alex right now. He needs to talk to him.

“Alex?” He knocks, the first time barely grazing the door with his finger. “Alex, can I come in?”

He hears the water shut off, but otherwise, no response.

“Alex, I’m so, so sorry,” he tries, shame burning up his throat. “I should’ve been more attentive, stopped when it was clear you were nervous, tried another position…”

The door flies open and Alex stands in the doorway. The rims of his eyes are red and his chest is wet and bare, he looks a mess. “Don’t blame yourself for this,” he mutters, so low Danny has to lean in to hear him.

“I’m not blaming either of us,” Danny lies. The floor is drenched with cooling water, and his toes curl up in discomfort. He ignores the dampness to sit next to Alex, who has lowered himself back into the tub and is now resolutely ignoring Danny. Danny tries again. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Alex sighs. “Top shelf, second cabinet.”

“Grey Goose?” Danny asks when he returns, clutching a bottle of alcohol in his hand. “Is this your way of telling me you have a drinking problem?”

A faint smile crosses Alex’s face. “No, I’d just prefer to be slightly intoxicated right now.”

Danny barks out a surprised laugh, but doesn’t protest when Alex reaches for the bottle and takes a large swig. There is nothing refined or posh about the movement, and even through his confusion, through the guilt and shame, Danny thinks Alex is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

“Give it here,” Danny requests, and Alex passes over the bottle. The drink burns on its way down, a pleasant warmth flooding his stomach almost immediately. They drink in silence, passing the bottle back and forth until the ceiling spins and Danny rests his head on the edge of the tub, watching the way water droplets glisten on Alex’s collarbone.

When Alex finally speaks, Danny jumps. “This isn’t your first time, is it?”

“No,” Danny admits. His first time had been a rushed affair with a young barista in the backseat of his Ford Focus. Q had teased him mercilessly for weeks after he’d found out. The second and third times were better, though, but he doesn’t say any of this. It’s Alex’s time to share.

Alex sighs, his head resting millimetres away from Danny’s. They’re so close Danny can see each line at the corner of Alex’s eyes. “I’d considered it a few times. But I was always out of step with the people around me. By the time I worked up the nerve to do it, it was too late.”

“I don’t think there’s such a thing,” Danny says, very gently.

“Isn’t there?” Alex looks down. “How do you admit you’ve never been in a relationship? Who wants to hear? And when they do, who wants to stay?”

Protectiveness surges over Danny. The idea that anyone, anyone at all, could have made Alex feel ashamed. Like he’s not worthy of love. And in that moment he swears to protect Alex with everything he has, for the rest of his life. He knows Alex would do the same for him.

“I do.”

A rare flash of emotion alights in Alex’s eyes. Their hands touch, just the barest graze of skin against skin. It’s tentative, as if this is the very first touch between them. And in a way, it is.

***

 “I’ll bottom this time, if that’s alright with you?”

Alex furrows his brow in thought.

“It wouldn’t be a hardship,” Danny assures him, kissing the corner of his mouth until it softens again. “Sex is sex, no matter how we do it. Besides, there’s plenty of time to try it the other way later.”

That seems to reassure Alex, and he hands off the bottle of lube to Danny. Danny coats his fingers in a generous dollop and scoots down the bed, lying down and spreading his legs wide. He can see Alex’s throat bob when the dark furl of his hole is exposed.

He clenches hard around his first finger. It’s tighter than he remembers; he hasn’t had a good wank in ages, and his body is unused to the penetration. But Danny breathes through the discomfort, focuses on Alex’s bare chest and dilated eyes.

“How is it?” Alex asks, voice a few degrees rougher than usual. Danny squirms under his intense gaze. He feels pinned, entirely exposed, and it’s at once embarrassing and empowering to have a man like Alex focused so wholly on him.

“Getting better,” Danny replies, inserting a second finger and scissoring them. “It’s been a while. Give us a mo’.” Then, because he’s feeling cheeky, he adds, “Maybe you can do this for me next time.”

Alex flushes a very fetching shade of red. “I’d like that.”

Then Danny brushes a swollen spot inside of him and he gasps, eyes fluttering. He rubs it again and it’s even better; his entire lower body melting into a puddle of sensation. He moans, the low sound echoing hollowly around the small room.

“Danny?” Alex asks, alarmed.

“Feels good,” Danny rasps. Suddenly Alex feels much too far away. He needs him now, needs to feel hot skin and taut muscles around his body and he tugs at Alex’s arm desperately. Alex collapses next to him and Danny draws him in for a kiss. It’s gentle at first, too gentle for Danny, and he deepens the kiss, one hand on the back of Alex’s head and one still pumping into his twitching body.

When they pull back, Alex’s lips are red and he’s wide-eyed. Danny can feel the stiff line of his cock poking him in the thigh. “You are beautiful,” Alex breathes.

A lump of emotion rises in Danny’s throat. So few men have said that to him. Even less have meant it. In Alex’s quiet voice, the small words sound so profound, so sincere, and he can’t fight the way his heart twinges or the small explosion of power within him.

Outside, rosebuds form and bloom within the span of seconds. They creep up the sides of the walls, overtaking granite and cement and repainting them in strokes of red.

Alex removes a condom from the box they bought at the local chemist’s—Danny still hasn’t forgotten the man’s sly wink when he paid. The first one breaks; Alex is too nervous, too excited. But the next one goes on easily enough. Then Alex is pushing inside him, the tip of his cock hot and wet as it drags into Danny’s body. Despite his earlier stretching, he still hisses, hole fluttering around the thick length of Alex’s cock. The pain grounds him in this moment, binds him to Alex’s body and he bears down, revelling in the intimacy of their coupling.

“How are you?” Alex asks, eyes wide as he stares down at Danny.

Danny blinks back tears. “Amazing. Oh gods, Alex, you’re amazing.”

“I won’t last,” Alex admits, a bit shamefaced. “I’m already…”

Danny shushes him, fingers tracing sigils of comfort and love onto Alex’s biceps, where his hands are clamped tight. Bit by bit, Alex edges deeper inside until with a final push, he’s seated completely within Danny, bollocks resting heavily against Danny’s arse and thighs trembling where they touch.

Without any prompting from Danny, Alex begins to thrust. The friction is delicious a million nerve ending igniting at once and Danny tosses his head back, eyes wide with sensation. His gasp is captured by Alex’s mouth, the taste of his own desire reflected back at him on Alex’s tongue. Everything around him is Alex. Alex, Alex, Alex.

The sight of Alex losing control is mesmerizing. Those grey eyes, usually so cool and collected, are dark and wild. His arms are strained, fingers clenched tight in the bedsheets and Danny can see each vein in his arms, taut with tension. A fine sheen of sweat surrounds them both. Danny’s hand drifts lower, from Alex’s arms to his back to his arse. Even through the haze of sex, he can appreciate the firm muscles he finds there.

“Danny…” Alex gasps. His thrusts are more erratic now. Far less controlled. He’s close. Danny can hear it in his voice, can smell it on his skin.

“Do it,” Danny grounds out. His own hard cock slaps against Alex’s stomach with every move. “

A few more pumps and Alex is spilling inside the condom, a hoarse cry spilling from his lips. The sudden flood of heat inside him is enough to push Danny over the edge and he clutches Alex tighter to him as he comes as well, thick strands of cum landing in the space between their bodies.

Danny winces when Alex pulls out, leaving him empty and gaping for a brief moment before his body adjusts to the sudden loss. He watches with hooded eyes as Alex ties the condom and tosses it into the trash for housekeeping to dispose of, then fetches a washcloth and wipes them both down. It strikes him that this is another thing about Alex that he can add to his list: nurturing. Though even Alex himself may not even know it.

Without the urgency of sex, Alex is shy. He stands there, unsure, for only seconds before Danny gathers him back into bed. Danny nuzzles into the space between Alex’s arm and chest and sighs, content with everything in his life at that moment.

“Thank you,” Alex says at last, when Danny is on the brink of sleep. He stirs at the sound of the low voice and listens. “I never thought I could have this.”

In that moment, Danny wants to tell Alex everything. The near misses, the frantic nights spent packing everything they own in knapsacks. The constant thrumming at the back of his head, reminding him that he is unstable, that his magic could explode at any moment. He doesn’t, of course. But he has a feeling that even if he did, it would all be okay.

“I’m here now,” Danny promises, both to Alex and himself.

They talk, and Danny learns more about Alex than he’d ever done before. Like the fact that Alex is an orphan. Like that he broke his thumb punching an older boy when he was five. Like that he’s allergic to tree nuts. Small, inconsequential things that somehow add up to the puzzle named Alex Turner. In turn, Danny tells him funny stories about the things he and Q got up to as kids—slightly censored, of course, replacing magical broomsticks with bicycles and exploding cauldrons with kitchen disasters.

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure we’re banned from every taffy shop in London now,” Danny concludes one story, chuckling at the absurdity of the memory. It feels good to be able to tell these stories to someone who wasn’t there with him.

Alex frowns. “London, you said?”

“Yeah,” Danny shrugs, remembering their tiny flat in the bustle of Brixton. It had been a good couple of years. “I’ve mentioned it before, haven’t I? That’s where Q and I lived before.”

“And...you live alone with your brother?”

“Well, no,” says Danny. “Two cats too. Turing and Pampuria. They’re lovely creatures. Completely evil, but very lovely. Why d’you ask?”

Alex’s brows are furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. It’s the most agitated Danny has ever seen him and, alarmed, he sits up, the haze of afterglow fading away by the second. “Alex, what’s wrong?”

The silence that hangs over them is thick and ominous. Danny can feel his heart pounding, his stomach twisting in anticipation of _something_. Then Alex smiles and lies back down.

“Nothing. It isn’t important.”

Danny nods, too tired to give any more thought to the matter for now. He snuggles closer, drifting off to sleep in Alex’s arms. He doesn’t see the troubled crease in Alex’s forehead, or the fact that the other man stays awake for hours, long after Danny has fallen asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay! I was sick for a while and just barely managed to get this chapter out but now I'm back on track and ready to write again! Special thanks to ao3-brihna for your kind message and cheering me on <3 this chapter is for you!

Q wakes up with a start.

It’s still dark out— a quick glance at his phone reveals that it’s four a.m., and Q grumbles, throwing himself back onto the pillow with a huff. Everything is quiet except the faint strains of Danny’s snores from down the hall. Turing is asleep at his feet, Pampuria nowhere in sight.

Most likely some cat hijinks, or the house rearranging itself again. Either way, four in the morning is _not_ an acceptable time to be awake, so Q yawns, scratches his shoulder as he snuggles into the blankets. Tomorrow is the weekend, so Q is going to sleep in extra late and spend the day reading nerdy webcomics in bed. He’s halfway back to sleep when he feels it again.

A vice around his magic, gently squeezing, like fingers around his neck. Q cries out as he tumbles out of bed, terror and dread pooling in the bottom of his stomach. It’s so invasive, like foreign hands touching him everywhere with no way to escape. For a moment Q actually forgets magic and claws at his body with blunt nails, trying to tear the feeling away from himself.

It doesn’t disappear, of course. And with every passing second, the terror grows. What _is_ it? What is this parasite, suckling at his magic like this?

Q steadies himself with the determination of a lion, closes his eyes and focuses. It’s much harder to summon the protective bubble around his magic than it would be if he were unmolested, but it manifests itself, pushing the foreign sensation away with each rise and fall of Q’s chest. The Strangeness fights, but Q pushes back with everything he has, keeping the ones he loves at the forefront of his brain.

Danny. The cats. The cottage. James. Q isn’t just fighting for himself; he’s fighting for all of them, to keep them all out of harm’s way. Every last drop of the life he’s built here rests in his hands. And with one final, desperate push, the foreign presence disappears.

At last Q sits up, feeling hard wood underneath his fingertips. He’d landed on the floor at some point during his struggle and hadn’t even realised it. Somehow, the house had slept on during what he was certain was one of the most terrifying experiences of his life. Danny’s snores hadn’t abated even a little bit. The only difference is Turing is now awake, disturbed by Q’s flailing, and glaring at Q through golden eyes that glow in the faint light.

Q strokes the cat with trembling fingers. “They’re looking for us again,” he whispers. “Oh Turing, What are we going to do?”

***

“Wait wait,” says Danny, cheeks pale. “Explain. Are we going to have to move again?”

Q stirs his corn flakes and milk half-heartedly. After his scare, he hadn’t slept again for the rest of the night, and he’s sure he looks it. “No, the protection charms on the cottage will keep anyone from pinpointing us exactly, but if they could probe my magic…”

“They might be able to dismantle it too,” Danny concludes, shakily.

Q doesn’t want to scare Danny, especially so soon after the last time, but he can’t afford to be gentle about this. “Danny, is there anyone you might have shown your powers to? Anyone who saw something they shouldn’t have?”

Danny fidgets. Q’s gaze sharpens. “Danny…”

“I might have had a couple of ‘accidents’ around town,” Danny admits, face red and eyes darting between his breakfast bagel and the window.

“Danny!” Q springs from the table, furious. “You promised me you’d try to be safe!”

“I didn’t think anyone saw me,” Danny protests, having the good graces to look shamed, at the very least. “I thought me and Alex were alone.”

Q wants to retort an “evidently not,” but Danny already looks wretched and afraid, and Q hasn’t the heart to upset his brother even more. Still, he can’t expect Danny to like what he has to say next. “Do you think Alex…?”

Danny shakes his head. “I don’t think he’s at risk. I could sense his lack of magic from a mile away, and I’m not even that good.”

“That’s not what I meant,” says Q, very gently.

It takes Danny a minute to get it, but when he does, he leaps up as well, mouth tight and trembling. “He wouldn’t. Alex _loves_ me. There’s no way he’d want to hurt either one of us.”

Looking at Danny’s rigid shoulders and the stubborn tilt of his chin, Q wants to believe him. He _has_ to believe him, because to think that Danny’s boyfriend would ever—it breaks his heart. Besides, Danny is a far better judge of character than him.

“Alright, alright, I’m just trying to be thorough,” Q soothes, wrapping his arms around his brother’s trembling frame. Danny clings to him, two scared boys in a world that seems intent on tearing them apart.

A flame dances on the edge of Q’s fingers. He won’t let them. Not even if everything else is against them. He’ll protect Danny with everything he has.

“What will we do?” Danny asks, voice small and afraid.

Q rubs soothing circles into his back. “We’ll find more protection spells. Add a new layer to the cottage. And we’ll both be more careful when we go into town. I’ll make some protection bags for Alex too, in case the witch hunters try to get to you through him.

The kitchen light explodes. Q yelps, darts out of the way of the broken glass. Amid the destruction stands Danny, fists clenched and eyes bright with anger.

“They wouldn’t dare,” Danny declares, firm.

Q chucks a piece of toast at him, effectively diffusing the tension. “Nice dramatics, loser. Now help me clean the broken glass off the table.”

 

***

 

Even with the threat of discovery looming over them, life in the cottage goes on. The mushroom room flourishes and they have a lovely dinner of stir-fry shiitakes, as well as mushroom tea for weeks to come. Danny sneaks a sip of one of Q’s potions and spouts a pair of large dragonfly wings that remain for hours.

Still, the house has become a regular fortress of magic. Salt lines all the doorsteps and windowsills—they have to be repainted every morning, the cats have a tendency to track them everywhere—and protective satchels hang from the ceiling rafters like demented bird feeders. A subtle reek of garlic hangs in the air now ( _the most potent protective herb,_ Q had insisted, even when Danny gagged and wrinkled his nose), but it’s a small price to pay for some peace of mind.

The protection seems to have worked. Neither one of the twins have felt that invasive probing in their magic since then. Still, Q can’t help but wonder if this is already too late. If their unknown hunter has already gleamed their identities without their knowing. He’s tempted to scry, to search for answers in the minds of the town, but it’s too dangerous—scrying, after all, is a two-way street. And Q really isn’t keen on opening his mind up to some unknown witch hunter.

Paranoia has effectively consumed Q. It’s a personal failing of his, the tendency to get too obsessive, too hung up on one subject. Danny would argue that it’s what happened with James, and Q would kick him, but it is the truth, after all. It’s all he can think about for days; spellbooks piling up in haphazard mountains on his formerly pristine work benches. He tries a variety of spells, both modern and ancient. From medieval catholic charms in bronze and copper worn under their clothes to feng shui Ba Gua mirrors hung over the doors, from Haitian Vodou to classic Wiccan visualisation rites, everything has its go. Danny bears this all with grace, submitting to foul tinctures poured down his throat to countless meditation rituals with minimal amounts of grumbling.

Q’s latest endeavour is a binding circle of the sort Boothroyd placed on his cottage before they’d moved in. It’s good, hearty magic, beyond the scopes of anything he’s tried till now. But if performed correctly, it could be seriously beneficial to their safety— anyone inside the bubble will be essentially invisible to scryers, their magical signatures and mental waves obscured to all those outside the circle drawn.

Sounds great in theory, but the list of ingredients alone is enough to make Q want to cry.

“Just listen to this nonsense,” he groans to Danny over afternoon tea. “Two bunches of mugwort leaves, gathered under a new moon, brewed with yarrow extract for four hours under low flame. Seven mice skulls, each no older than seventy-seven days. What kind of elitist, outdated bullshit is this?”

Danny shrugs, one cat lying on his lap and one perched on his shoulders. They’re both eyeing his biscuits with unconcealed interest. If he were Danny, Q would be terrified for his life. “The cats can help with the mice skulls, at least?”

Q snorts a laugh. “Have you seen Pampuria? If she can get off her fluffy arse for anything more than salmon rolls, I’ll eat my cardigan.”

Pampuria glares at him imperiously, flickering her tail back and forth.

“Oh, I don’t mean that,” Q tells her gravely. “You’re a lovely beastie. You really are. And so are you.” This last bit is directed to Turing, who has shed his slinky black body for a fluffy ginger pelt. Q still hasn’t figured out the counterspell to stop him transforming every few days, but neither cat seems to mind Turing’s ever-changing appearance.

“I do like this shade of orange on him. Very fetching,” Danny says brightly.

Q grins, shaking his head at his brother’s antics, and takes a sip of tea. It’s cold, of course, long-abandoned in favour of his notes. “But really, this spell. D’you think we can even manage it? Some of these things are...I don’t even know where to find snowdonia hawkweed, for one thing. What kind of plant is that?”

Danny snorts into his tea.

“What?” Q asks, aggrieved, and Danny raises a brow.

“Good thing you know a florist.”

 

***

James, at least, looks glad to see him.

“Welcome back, little wizard,” he teases, blue eyes twinkling the moment Q steps through his door. Q rolls his eyes at the familiar joke, aware of the fact that he’s not wearing his cape today. The cheerful green splash of the flower shop is like entering another world, one in which violence cannot possibly belong, and despite himself, Q relaxes.

“If I really was a wizard, I’d have turned you into a toad for such disrespect,” he sniffs, unable to help the grin that spreads over his face at the sight of James. He can’t help it. James has said that he only wants to be friends, but that doesn’t stop Q’s heart from leaping like an overexcited puppy whenever he’s near the man.

James grins and wipes his hands on a green dishrag, leaving smudges of dirt behind. He’d likely been repotting plants then, or he’d just returned from working in the greenhouse. Q misses that place, the sun on his fur and rough hands stroking down his spine—

“—tea?”

“Hmm, what was that?” Q asks, blinking.

“I asked if you’d like a cuppa,” James says again, patiently.

“Oh!” Q blushes, feeling like a dolt. “No, not today, thanks. I’m here on rather urgent business, actually.”

James crosses his arms. “Urgent botany business? What did you do, set some poison ivy on fire?”

“Haha,” Q rolls his eyes, ignoring the way James’ biceps bulge rather attractively when he does that. “No, I’m on the hunt for a plant. You wouldn’t know where I can get my hands on some snowdonia hawkweed?”

Leaning back with a whistle, James regards Q with narrowed eyes. “One of these days, you’ll have to explain exactly what you get up to in that lab of yours.”

“One day,” Q promises, very conscious of the fact that ‘one day’ might never come, if their hunter friend has anything to say about it.

James nods, eyes soft as they linger on Q, and it makes Q want to scream. _Don’t look at me like that when you know how much I want you,_ he wants to say. Not for the first time, he wonders why James refuses to date him when—unless he’s really rubbish at reading people—the man seems just as attracted to Q as Q is to him.

The moment is shattered when James reaches under the counter for a battered-looking address book. “I don’t personally know where to find any,” he says, flipping through the lists of names and numbers. “But I have a friend in Wales, specialises in collection of rare plants. If anyone can help you, it’s her.”

“Wales?” Q repeats with dismay. “I don’t suppose she does house calls?”

James chuckles. “No, and no phone number either. She’s even more of a dinosaur than me when it comes to technology. Her name is Olivia Mansfield.”

“Mansfield, got it,” says Q, staring at the small scrap of paper with her name and address that James hands to her. He doesn’t want to be away from England when there’s a witch hunter in town, but he needs this herb. He needs to cast the protection circle, so no one can invade his magic again.

“Q, is everything alright?” James asks, frowning. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re even jumpier than usual.

Oh, how he wants someone to confide in, someone to unburden his fears and worries to. But he doesn’t. Knowledge is power, after all, and he can’t risk the possibility of someone trying to get to him and Danny through James. “Oh, just peachy,” he lies. “Just dreading the prospect of a trip to Wales. I hear they don’t take kindly to Englishmen there.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to charm them with that cardigan of yours,” says James with a wink.

Q snorts and laughs along with him, allowing himself one moment of lightness before wading back into the throes of danger.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Now that Uni's started again, updates may be a little erratic. But I'll try my best to get new chapters out as soon as I can!
> 
> By the way, skylocked has drawn more art for this 'verse and it's just gorgeous! Go [here](http://skylocked.tumblr.com/post/149129288185) and [here](http://skylocked.tumblr.com/post/149161711100) for lovely magical twins goodness :D

Francis finds the letter on her desk in the morning.

A brief note, written in longhand on thick paper. There’s no signature, no return address on the envelope, but she knows who the letter is from. And she knows what it means. 

_Found them._

She doesn’t smile, but the glint in her eyes says it all. She knew she’d assigned the right man to the case. She knows Alistair will complete his mission.

***

“You want me to _what._ ” Danny glares at his brother, utterly unimpressed.

“You’d just have to drop by,” Q pleads, waving his hands to make his clothes fly into a compact ruksack. “Just a few quick visits! Please, I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to convince this Mansfield to give me the herb, and he gets worried.”

“For a _cat,_ ” Danny says again, as if repeating it for the tenth time will somehow get Q to see how mental he’s being. “You want me to change into a cat and visit your crush, because he gets worried about a bloody _cat_. A cat that’s actually you, no less.”

Q throws his arms up, and immediately yelps as a pair of socks shoot up, slapping him on the head. Danny would laugh if he wasn’t so unamused with his brother at the moment. “Aren’t you the one always preaching about safety? How do you know the witch hunter won’t recognize me and trap me in a kitty crate?”

“That’s not funny,” Q snaps. Danny really should take pity on his brother. Q rarely gets this frazzled, even after Danny accidentally set his lab on fire that one time (in his defence, Q shouldn’t leave candles lying around where innocent Dannys could knock them over). But this is just ridiculous.

“Isn’t it?” Danny retorts. “Because it sounds an awful lot like a joke to me. You’re leaving me here on my own when there’s a psycho murderer on the loose, and to top it all off, you want me to do _magic_ , and—”

“I promise it’ll be safe,” says Q, now zipping up his bag and shoving a shapeless black hoodie over his head. “Take one of the shielding charms from the workbench and stick to busy streets. You just have to pop in, meow a few times, and leave again. Please? I’ll owe you so much, Danny.”

Danny sighs. The truth is he’s a little thrilled for Q to have asked this of him. Sure, Q probably would’ve sent one of the cats if he thought he could pass them off as himself, but Danny likes to think this means Q trusts his magical abilities a bit more than he did before. Besides, it feels awfully cloak and dagger, being sent off on a secret assignment like this. That doesn’t change the fact that he’s miffed at being left alone, and honestly, more than a bit terrified that the hunter really will find him while Q is away. “What’ll you give me?”

“What do you want?” Q counters.

Danny doesn’t even need to think about it. “I want the bigger bedroom.”

“Like hell!” Q cries, as vehement as if Danny had just suggested Q tear open his chest and give him his own heart. “We drew straws for it, fair and square.”

“No room, no cat,” Danny crosses his arms, staring Q down. After a few seconds, Q sighs.

“Fine, you bloody monster. But you’d better be extra cute and cuddly.”

Danny gives a beatific smile. “Aren’t I always?”

 

***

The house is lonely without Q.

Literally. As in, the house misses Q.

“You and me both, mate,” Danny tells the staircase as it gives an extra-mournful _creak_ under his feet. The cottage has been...droopy lately. The floors flex under his weight, as if they’d give way any second. The walls of Q’s lab, despite being painted in bright hues of green and purple, seem to suck in the light around it. Even the plants seem to be wilting, no matter how much sunlight and water Danny gives them.

Unsurprising—the cottage practically runs on magic, and Danny’s wonky powers are nowhere near enough to support it. Not for the first time, Danny flexes his fingers, hoping to see a spark or two shoot out of it. He’d even settle for a faint line of smoke. But as always, there’s nothing.

Danny sighs and shakes out his hand. One day. One day, he’ll get the hang of it.

Thankfully, Q has a charm that helps him transform into a cat. He’s only taken it a handful of times in the past, mostly as Q’s test subject (to varied results, Danny spent two weeks as a blue leopard while Q was trying to iron out this particular potion). On the bright side, he knows what to expect now. Danny swallows the potion that tastes of brine and ammonia, gagging, as he always does, at the aftertaste. A few beats later, his eyesight sharpens and the colours bleach into dullness. His hearing is amplified, each shift of the house reverberating endlessly in his eardrums. Next is the shrinking, the disorientation of watching the room loom taller and taller over him, the compactness of his form and the powerful muscles in the small body. Danny treads on four paws, refamiliarizing himself with the feline body, the addition of a tail that swishes behind him with every step.

Turing comes over to investigate, sniffing curiously at Danny’s ear until Danny twitches and sneezes. It’s more than a little disconcerting to be the same size as his cat. In fact, he might even be a bit smaller than Turing, who has taken the form of a Bengal cat for the day, long limbs and big ears much more striking than Danny’s slim little frame.

Oh, magic. He may never be good at it, but it’s so...so _magical_. So whimsical and fantastic and he’ll never, never get used to all the lovely things it has to offer. Danny purrs, pleased with the novelty of feline movement. The stone floor is cold and slippery under his sensitive toebeans. With one leap, he flies into the air and lands neatly on a corner table. He’s Danny the Acrobat, Danny the champion trapeze artist, performing death-defying stunts with the blasé calm of—

He overbalances and tumbles to the floor, sending Turing skittering away in alarm.

Danny licks a paw and grooms his ruffled fur. Well, he should get going soon, anyway.

He trots out of the cat door and takes off running, through soft undergrowth and sun-baked stones alike. It’s the sort of bright, cheery day that makes it impossible for him to be upset, and he purrs brightly as he leaps nimbly over a log that smells of moss and rot.

Too soon he finds himself at the doorway of Q’s florist. Although he’s never been here before, it’s as if he recognises it the moment he sees its handpainted sign and vibrant displays. Something about the shop feels familiar to him—or maybe not familiar, per se, but _significant_ , like a hand on his back nudging him towards it. Maybe it’s Q’s magical signature. His brother comes in here often enough, after all.

All right, how would Q announce his arrival? Danny stands on two legs and peers into the store. James Bond seems to be have a busy day ahead of him, the store is packed with people and the only parts of Bond he can see are the ends of his green apron as he walks back and forth and the occasional flash of blond hair.

Well sod it, Danny isn’t waiting around for Bond to notice him. He feels exposed out in the open like this, vulnerable in his small form, and all he really wants to do is get home and curl up on the couch with the cats. The _real_ cats. Danny circles the store until he finds a window with a good vantage points, leaps onto it, and slams into the glass with all his weight.

Several people inside the store jump. One child even shrieks, and Bond whips around, eyes wide with shock.

Danny has to admit, the man does have very nice eyes. Not as nice as Alex’s, but still quite pretty.

“Christ, Shadow, you terrified me!” Bond grumbles, opening the window so Danny can slip inside.

“Mreow. Mrr mrr.” Danny informs him. _This isn’t my idea of a good time either._ So this is the bloke Q’s been working himself into a frenzy about? He’s fit enough, in an odd sort of way. Ears that stick out, a wry mouth that can’t decide whether it’s smiling or scowling, more crags on his face than a mountain range. But he’s handsome as well: eyes that seem to stare straight through you and a body like a Greek god. Yes, Q could have chosen worse.

“Hang on a ‘mo, there’re a lot of people right now, big wedding in a few days,” Bond explains as he cuts daisies for a goggle of women who eye him with the glint of eagles who have just spotted prey. Bond seems indifferent to their attentions, something that mollifies Danny. If he started flirting with these women in front of Danny, he would’ve bitten him for sure.

So Danny sits on the counter and waits for Bond to finish with his customers. It’s cluttered with debris; papers with rows of numbers scrawled across the margins, small baggies of fertilizer, gum wrappers, and a hodgepodge of other knick-knacks of the sort that tend to gather in well-used places. Amid all of this is a small mound of blankets and pillows. A cat bed.

Ah, shite. James made a bed for Q-as-cat. Danny has to admit, that’s just adorable. It’s easy to see how James Bond charmed his usually level-headed brother if he went around doing shit like this. Danny prods at the nest with his two front paws to test its fluffiness and satisfied, lowers himself into its warmth.

“Oh, how adorable!” One woman coos, reaching out as if to touch him. Danny is about to hiss when James puts his hand on her sleeve.

“He doesn’t like being touched,” James explains.

_Damn straight_ , Danny thinks, curling himself into a ball and settling in to wait.

Hours later—or it could have been mere minutes; Danny dozed off and lost track of time—the store empties and he’s left alone with Bond. It’s a good thing he’s currently a cat, because Danny would have no idea what to say to this man otherwise. _Hey there, you’re the reason my brother turned into a human raincloud for days and by the way, he’s still obsessed with you, and also we’re witches, and also he’s the cat you love so much?_

“What are you thinking?” Bond teases.

Danny blinks, hackles rising. Does James suspect something?

Before he can do anything rash, Bond chuckles and smooths down his fur. “Easy, kitten. I swear, a few days away and you’ve already forgotten who I am.”

Oh, right. Danny relaxes. James is one of those people who talks to animals like they’re human. A bit weird, but it isn’t as if Danny doesn’t do the same thing.

James continues, taking out a can of cat food from behind the counter. “Think this’ll jog your memory? I got your favourite brand.”

Danny’s ears perk up. Is he expected to eat cat food? Does _Q_ eat cat food when he’s here? If he does, Danny’s never going to let him live it down. “Mrra!” he protests, blinking up at Bond.

Bond snorts and gives him another rub. At the back of his mind, Danny wonders how Alex would react if he ever found out about this. “What’s the matter, kitty, not hungry?”

_Not for jellied meat slops, no,_ Danny meows disdainfully, tossing his head for good measure. He’s stayed here long enough, right? Bond knows that his cat is alive and well, so surely Danny can go home now?

But to his surprise, his all-consuming desire to return to the safety of the cottage has waned. It’s easy to see why Q comes here so often, the scents of fresh-cut flowers intermingling with the musk of dried herbs and moist dirt. For a pair of witches, they could practically live on the smell alone. He leaps off the cat bed and clambers onto one of the shelves, sniffing with delight. He can stay a while longer. It’ll be fine.

James, to his credit, lets him explore without complaint. Danny wonders how often Q has done the same thing, surrounding himself in the lush petals until he could almost believe he was outside, in the most fantastic forest he could imagine. It’s hard to tear himself away, even though he knows he should get going. Danny sniffs so hard at a bouquet of freesias that some of the pollen gets in his nose. He sneezes.

And suddenly, the freesias are not nearly as big as they were a second ago.

“What the bloody—” James nearly falls off his seat, but somehow lands on his feet with all the grace of an elephant. From his vantage point on the ground, all four _human_ limbs askew, Danny thinks dazedly that James looms just as much as he did when Danny was a fraction of his size.

“Q?” James is asking, so incredulous that it sends Danny’s instincts into overdrive. If he’d taken a moment to just breathe, to calm down and think things through, maybe he would have realised that James is not a threat.

But as strung-out as his nerves are, from both the danger of the witch hunter and the shock of suddenly being human again, Danny reacts on pure instinct. The room glows white, light flooding in from every direction at once. It’s only for a second, but when the light dies down, James is on the ground. Unconscious.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! I've been completely swamped with University and haven't had the chance to write for weeks :( I hope this chapter isn't too choppy because I've been poking away at it for too long, and I'm just getting back in the rhythm of writing again!
> 
> My midterms are coming up so I don't know how long the next chapter will take, but I'll do my best to get it out as quickly as possible! Until then, hope you're all enjoying the pumpkin season (perfect for witchy doings :D)

James wakes up with a splitting headache.

He’s reminded of his navy days, drinking so much while on shore leave that he can’t even open his eyes in the morning. The disorientation, the inability to think more than a few words at a time is all very familiar, save for the fact that he hasn’t touched a bottle in years. Then he tries to rub his eyes and finds his wrists restrained and the images of drunken hooting and naked strangers in his bed dissipate, to be replaced with darker memories of torture. Interrogations. Pain.

Bond growls and struggles, twisting his body wildly in its restraints, in the chair to which he’s bound. Whatever ties his captors have used, they’re unlike any he’s experienced before. They do not burn his skin like rope or poke at flesh like zip-ties. Clearly, the criminal world has learned a few tricks since Bond was last on active duty. That doesn’t mean he’ll take his kidnapping lying down though, and he struggles harder, so much that the chair nearly tips.

“James! James! Calm down!” A voice cries, and he hesitates, because it sound familiar—

His vision is clearing up a bit, and when he looks down, he sees the dirt-smeared apron, shirt, and jeans he’d donned in the morning. And something else. He blinks hard, clearing the spots from the edges of his vision, squinting again.

Nope, he’s not imagining things.

He’s tied to the chair with swathes of thick vines.

What the hell? Now that he thinks about it, the texture is familiar. He’s trimmed many a climbing hydrangea in his time, after all. Never one as thick as this one, however, and never one used as a restraint. Maybe he’s drugged. Maybe he’s hallucinating all of this.

“I can’t believe you knocked him out.” The same voice from before breaks through his thoughts. It doesn’t seem to be talking to him, however, so he keeps listening.

“I told you, it was an accident!” Another voice, this one less polished than the other. Younger. More indignant. “You would’ve panicked too, with the scare I had.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have cast an attack spell on him!”

Spells? He _has_ to be hallucinating. Bond groans, pressure building at the back of his head, at his temples and pounding behind his eyes.

“James, are you awake?” Suddenly his vision clears, and he sees his captors face to face for the first time.

“Q?” he asks, incredulous. Then he looks over the man’s shoulder and freezes again. “There are two of you?”

Q shuffles forward, fidgeting with his spectacles in that way he does when he’s feeling embarrassed. James isn’t sure what to feel right now, but he still finds the gesture endearing, even under the circumstances. “Err, not quite. This is my brother, Danny.”

The other man stares at him with wide, rabbit-like eyes, and now that James has had a closer look, he can spot the subtle differences between them. Danny’s face is rounder, his hair more controllable. He’s a lot jumpier than Q, one leg bouncing with arrhythmic excitement, and Bond feels exhausted just watching him. Clearly, Q is the calm one in the family.

“Hello,” James says, because he hasn’t forgotten his manners, even when his favourite customer has somehow kidnapped him and acquired a twin. There’s something else, though, something, nudging the back of his mind.

“You probably want an explanation,” Q is saying, eyeing him like one would do a feral animal, and Bond thinks harder.

“No! Q, try another memory charm!” Danny protests. James thinks harder. His head still throbs unpleasantly whenever he tries to remember the events of the past—hour? Day? What time is it?

What did he do that morning? He had two eggs and a rasher of bacon, same as usual. Then he opened up the shop. There was a big rush order— an impulse wedding, and—

“You’re a _cat_ ,” he says, louder than he intended perhaps, because both twins jump. Memories are flooding back. Shadow (not Shadow after all?) had shown up when he was cutting lilies for the bride and scared the living daylights of the entire congregation. The little cat (not a cat after all?) had seemed more aloof than usual, but he’d left him alone to sniff at the plants, and then?

_“Could you both please calm down—”_

“ _He has to be the witch hunter why else would the spell not work—”_

“Be quiet!” James yells, and miraculously, both twins obey. They turn to him with matching expressions of offense and the effect is comical. James almost laughs. Almost.

After a few seconds, Danny scowls and kicks at the table he’s leaning against with a tattered pair of Converse that offends James the moment he lays eyes on them. “Seriously, Q, you know this is the best option. If he’s a hunter, he’ll leave us alone. If he’s just a civilian, he’ll be happier if he doesn’t know.”

“No one is doing anything to my memory,” James protests, although he has to admit, the twin makes sense. James would happily write off this whole encounter as a fever dream, a byproduct of faulty sleeping pills, if not for the fact that he saw his beloved cat turn into a young man and knock him unconscious. “Now if you please,” he continues, almost desperately, “untie me.”

Q is the one who shakes his head this time. “Not until you tell us what you know.”

“What _I_ know?” Bond laughs, hearing the edge of hysteria in his own voice. A part of him is still certain that his mind has finally snapped, and that he’s really sitting in a white room somewhere warm and sunny. “Why don’t you two tell me what I’m doing here first?”

Danny and Q exchange a look. Something unspoken passes between them, and Danny finally sighs and nods. Q turns to him. “An accident. Danny was startled and you saw something you shouldn’t have. We couldn’t just leave you there.”

James blinks. “Well, that’s a euphemism if I ever heard one.”

Q twitches, expression caught somewhere between a laugh and a wince. It doesn’t escape Bond, how the twins are noticeably more rattled than him despite the fact that he’s the one tied to a chair without explanation. “Okay. Um. I guess the first thing you should know is, um.”

“That’s not— ” Bond is about to say, but then Q clicks his fingers and a small stream of water drips from his fingertips. Q twitches his wrist and the water molds itself into the shape of a flame, flickering in the air, suspended centimeters away from his skin.

“Way to show off,” Danny rolls his eyes.

Q glares at him and flicks his fingers. The water splashes onto Danny’s face and he splutters indignantly. “Ugh! Q! You do that every day, I swear!”

James realizes that his jaw is still hanging open. And on top of that, he’s beginning to drool. With a concerted effort, he closes his mouth and licks his dry lips. “How is that possible?”

With a shrug from Q, the dancing drops of water dissipate like mist into the air. “Who knows, really? It isn’t as if the government funds research in magical abilities.”

“Magic,” James repeats dumbly. Hearing the word out loud makes it feel real, more real than getting knocked out and finding out that his beloved cat is actually a man. Should he—should be be frightened? Angry? Awed? Mostly, he supposes, he’s just confused. All this is too fantastic for a man whose work has also lied solidly within the realm of the physical.

Shit, he’d teased Q about being a wizard. He’d teased a _witch_ about being a _wizard_. Bond still isn’t sure what the difference is between the two, or indeed if there are any differences, but he doesn’t think that stacks in his favour.

“We’re not _evil_ witches or anything,” Q explains, looking embarrassed. “Really, we don’t go around capturing the townspeople on a daily basis.”

“Only weekly,” Danny mutters.

“Danny, I swear I’ll turn you into a goldfish and fed you to Turing,” Q threatens. “We’re trying _not_ to look like the villains in this scenario, remember?”

James almost snorts at that sentence. In all his years in the navy, remembering all the people who’d tried to kill him, all the horrors he’d witnessed, he can hardly see these two boys as villains. Maybe he’s being foolish, underestimating a pair of powerful wizards who’ve got him tied up like something out of a bad action film, but he doesn’t believe that Q and Danny are actually dangerous.

He’s watched Q cooing at baby basil plants like they were the most precious things he’d ever seen. How could someone like that be a murderer?

Now, if only he can convince _them_ that he’s not the threat.

“Q, the _spell_ ,” Danny tries again.

“Not in English!” Q snaps.

Danny sighs. James is prepared to hear a foreign language, and he hopes it’s French, or Mandarin, or German—one of the ones he knows, but when Danny speaks again, he doesn’t seem to have switched languages. “Q, I know you have a crush on him, but can we try to be objective here? You’re the logical one; can’t you see that he’s the one who’s been hunting us?”

“For the last time, I don’t want to kill either one of you!” James exclaims, although that promise is wearing thinner and thinner every time he repeats it.

The reaction he gets is unexpected. Danny and Q freeze, then slowly turn towards him, faces slack with horror.

“What?” James asks, dreading the response.

“How did you understand us?” Q whispers.

A loud, harsh sound pierces the air. James flinches and ducks instinctively before realising that the sound came from Danny, who has knocked a chair over in his agitation.

“He understood us,” he growls at Q.

Something charges through the air. Like standing outside during a thunderstorm, or the moment before a bomb explodes. The hair on the back of Bond’s neck stands on edge and a cold sweat breaks out over his palms. “What—” he begins to say.

“Oh gods _damn_ ,” Q gasps, turning away from James. “Danny, Danny, can you hear me? You need to calm down.”

No response from the twin. James watches with fascination as the thick strands of his hair rise and fly about his face, despite the lack of wind in the room. His skin begins to glow, and after that it hurts to look at him, feels like something hot and bright is tearing him apart, and oh, Bond has no idea what he’s gotten himself into here.

The vines fall away from his body and Q is yelling,” Run, James! Get out of here!”

“What’s happening?” he asks, rooted to the spot. There’s a strange smell around him, sharp and clear—ozone? The crisp air of the Swiss mountains, a memory of boyhood. He can’t seem to walk away.

“He’s dangerous when he’s like this,” Q explains, all the while edging closer and closer to Danny, making placating gestures. “Please, go, he can’t control his powers when he’s worked up.”

James stands up, blood rushing into the parts of his leg that had gone numb. He should leave, shouldn’t he…?

Danny’s glowing even brighter now. The entire house is shaking. Something white hisses and darts deeper into the house. This is far outside his area of expertise. It should be a no-brainer; he should get out of there before Danny brings the whole house down, but just as he’s preparing to leave, he hears it.

It’s a small sound of distress, barely visible over Q’s words and the groaning of the house, but it obviously came from Danny.

On one of his first missions out of the academy, Bond’s commanding officer had called him a “reckless idiot with a saviour complex the size of the English Channel”. And not much has changed since then, apparently, because Bond still can’t help but want to save everyone.

He takes a step forward.

“What are you doing?” Q shouts, but Bond focuses his attentions on Danny. The little fool who’d pretended to be his brother pretending to be a cat, all because Q had asked.

“I wish I had that kind of loyalty in my life,” he tells Danny, and means every word of it.

Danny’s pupils are still consumed by the light streaming out of him, but Bond can tell that Danny is listening to him. It’s a terrible feeling; the strangeness is even more concentrated now. Out of the corners of the eyes he can see constellations spinning and disassembling, and if he concentrates hard enough he can hear snatches of a song that sounds like crying. But Bond is stubborn, and he pushes it all aside.

“I know you just want to protect your brother,” he tells Danny. “It’s why you’re so angry at me, isn’t it? I don’t know much about your lives, but I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you, having to keep something like this a secret.”

“No,” he hears Q whisper, and it breaks his heart a little, but he keeps going. “But there’s no danger here, I promise. I’m not a threat to you.”

The stars in his vision seem to be disappearing, just the slightest bit, and encouraged, Bond continues. “Danny, please calm down and we can figure this out together. All of us. I might not know much about what you two are, but I want to help keep you safe. Besides,” he adds, rueful. “I’m ex-navy. And if there’s one thing I learned from military service, it’s that it always pays to have a gun around.”

Finally, finally, the light in Danny’s eyes fade until they’re a sleepy shade of hazel again. The house settles with a low groan, floors creaking like the joints of an old man. Q rushes forward, catches Danny before he collapses to the ground and finally, everything is silent again. Bond lets out a deep breath, surprised that his words actually worked. He’d always considered himself to be more proficient with a tool in his hands than peace on his lips.

The old, familiar thirst for a drink stings at his throat. Bond should push it down, but it’s been a hell of the day and he wants nothing more than a stiff drink to calm his nerves.

“Kitchen’s through the back,” Q says without looking up from Danny, seemingly reading his mind. At this point, nothing would surprise Bond anymore. He nods and navigates quietly around the brothers on the ground, wanting to give them a bit of privacy.

The kitchen is in shambles, spice bottles all over the ground and dishes broken where they’d fallen during Danny’s power surge. James shivers at the memory, adrenaline still making his heart pound hard in his chest. So close. They were so close to getting vaporised.

He allows himself no more than a few moments to collect himself, because he’s James Bond and he used to eat trauma for breakfast. Fortunately, the bottles of alcohol at the back of the pantry seem to be untouched, and he takes a grateful swig of the first one he finds. It tastes sharp and clear, like vodka with a hint of wildflowers. Homebrewed. James smiles. It seems the twins are talented in more than just magic.

Clutching the bottle to him, James returns warily to the living room, unsure what he’ll find. The twins are deep in conversation when he walks in; conversation that grinds to a halt as soon as they sense his presence.

Danny and Q stare at him, standing unnaturally still; so still that Bond feels the need to cough or fidget, just to break the spell that seems to hang over the room.

Q is the one who speaks first.

“You’re not entirely human either, are you?”

 


End file.
